


Don't Need a Gun

by Bold_as_Brass



Series: Run To You [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Abduction, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Post-Scorpia Rising, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-14 09:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7165448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For four years Alex had believed Yassen was dead but then they meet again on the roof of a burning building. Yassen offers to help him escape - but his assistance comes at a high price: Alex must buy his freedom with his body. Now he is trapped in a hotel room with a man he has little reason to trust. How far is Yassen willing to go, to get what he wants?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Chira for the beta.

By the time Alex reached the roof, the heat from the fire had caused its tar coating to soften and melt. It clung to his boots like toffee and doubled their weight. Smoke filled the air and stung his eyes. The distant shouting had stopped when a second explosion had ripped through the stairwell and thrown him to his knees. The route back was blocked. He needed to find a new way out before the building collapsed and dropped him into the inferno below. The roof was flat and covered by paper felt, tar, and gravel. A low wall ran around the perimeter. To the south, the ground dropped away into rough rock scree. The fall wouldn’t kill him, but the landing might. To the north – he froze and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. To the north, a dark figure stood upon the parapet, its head turned towards him. He knew that smooth face and those pale blue eyes. Yassen Gregorovich, the Russian-born contract killer, and a man whom he had seen shot dead four years ago.

There was an endless pause during which neither of them moved. Yassen recovered first, jumping to the roof with easy grace. He was dressed all in black; his close-cropped blond hair glittered in the midday sun.

“Alex?” he said. “Alex Rider?” His voice was as calm and reasonable as Alex remembered. The words carried little trace of a Russian accent.

“You’re dead,” said Alex. His gun was in his hand and pointing at Yassen’s head, though he didn’t remember drawing it.

“You’ve grown up.” Yassen stared at Alex a moment longer, his expression unreadable, then crouched and opened a large bag at his feet.

Alex shook his head in disbelief but his aim didn’t waver. “I saw you die, Yassen.”

“You were fourteen,” said Yassen, his attention on the contents of the bag. “Perhaps less familiar with death than you are now. Are you sure about that?”

He had been. He had looked into Yassen’s eyes and seen their light dim. But Yassen was smart and subtle: capable of faking death if it served his own aims. He had said he loved Alex in their last minutes together and Alex had often wished they’d had more opportunity to talk. Now it appeared fate had granted that wish, but the Yassen of imagination was far more malleable than the man who crouched before him, pointedly ignoring the gun at his head.

“And what brings you here, Alex Rider, to a secret military installation in a country with no love for Great Britain?”

“The same thing as you, I expect.”

“And what’s that?” said Yassen. He had finished emptying the bag and was beginning to build something from its contents - a narrow frame of cables and pipes.

Alex debated not answering, but there was only one reason Yassen would be in this inhospitable place. “The satellite images.”

Images which proved foreign forces were operating deep within this hostile territory. Last night an unknown group had breached the security of one of the world’s most advanced networks and hacked into its computer systems. A dozen stills had been remotely downloaded onto a computer in this compound before a technician had noticed and severed the link. A special operations team based in the Persian Gulf had been sent to cut an undersea fibre-optic cable, twenty miles from the coast, disrupting internet and telecommunications across the region. The media had been briefed that a ship’s anchor was most likely responsible. As the nearest operative, he had been dispatched to destroy the images before connectivity was restored.

“You’re here for the pictures?” Yassen didn’t pause as he twisted and tightened the pipework together. A light-weight frame was taking shape beneath his hands.

“No,” said Alex. “I’m here to make sure no one else gets them.”

Yassen glanced towards the entrance of the rooftop where a black plume of smoke had begun to billow into the cloudless sky. “Well you have managed that at least.” He rested the frame upright on the roof, sat back on his haunches and considered it. “Your gun is out of ammunition, Alex,” he added casually. “You can stop pointing it at me now.”

“No it’s not,” he said, forcing his voice to sound confident.

“SIG Sauer P228. Thirteen round magazine. I followed you in. You put four rounds into the Jeep, one in each wheel. One as you went into the office – you shot at your reflection in the inner door. When you finished reformatting the computer hard drive, you put a bullet into every computer terminal to cover your tracks: six in total. You disabled the fire suppression system and set off the explosives in the server room. The noise alerted the guards. Two shots as you came up the stairs to warn them off. This leaves you with - none.”

“I reloaded,” said Alex.

“No,” Yassen said. His voice was soft, almost apologetic. He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“If it’s not loaded, why do you want it?”

“Call it a gesture of goodwill.”

“Why would I show you goodwill?”

“Because you need my help. Pay attention. What do you notice?”

Alex took a deep breath and concentrated. He could feel the sun beating on to his head and heat rising beneath his feet. The acrid smell of burning plastic and hot tar. The crackle and pop of the encroaching fire. Smoke and dust, gritty on his lips, the fine particles crunching between his teeth. To the north the foothills of the Kopet Dag marked the border, shimmering in a milky haze. To the east, three dots had appeared in the sky and a low throb hummed at the edge of his hearing, the sound of helicopter blades cutting the air.

“Yes,” Yassen said. “It would not be good for them to find you here. Not for you, not for your country.”

Inwardly, Alex groaned. He had not expected the authorities to notice him so quickly. His mission was supposed to be covert: destroy the computers and muddy his tracks. The explosion which had rocked the building and blocked the stairwell had been set by someone else, someone intent on obliterating the compound from existence. Yassen was right - his main goal now should be avoid detection and pray the fire would do the rest. Being found in possession of the firearm used in the raid could only heap more pain upon his head. He wiped the gun free of fingerprints and tossed it to the roof. Yassen picked it up, ejected the magazine and showed Alex the empty clip, then pulled forward the slide to display the vacant chamber. Point made, he reinserted the magazine and threw the gun over the side of the building.

“What’s your plan?” Alex said as it clattered onto the rocks below.

In answer Yassen lifted the frame on to the wall and Alex saw it was the beginnings of a rotor kite: a one-man craft designed to pilot the wearer over short distances. To his dubious eyes it appeared lightweight and flimsy-looking, barely more than a few struts of metal and a rudimentary steering mechanism.

“You’ll never get to the border in that.”

“I don’t need to. I have a vehicle hidden in the wadi.”

The wadi was marked by a narrow line of scrub, less than a kilometre away. “And what’s to stop me taking it for myself?”

Yassen laughed outright at that, a low, merry sound, and Alex’s face flared at becoming the target of his derision.

“You have grown up,” Yassen said when he was done. “Yes, you could try. But first you would have to kill me, and that may not be as easy as you think. And when you have killed me you will have to find the buggy. And when find it, you will notice it has a biometric lock and an access code. Maybe you can bypass the settings before your friends arrive. Maybe not. And then there is the border to deal with.”

“Or?” Alex said.

Yassen sobered. “Or I could take you with me. But there would be a price.”

“I don’t have the pictures.”

“I don’t want the pictures.”

Alex frowned. “Then what do you want?”

For a moment Yassen didn’t respond and when he spoke, his words were ambiguous. “Your cooperation.”

“Cooperation in what?”

Yassen didn’t answer directly. Instead he took the long, slender rotor blade from where it stood propped against the wall and inserted into the top of the kite’s frame. The central mast slid smoothly into the waiting slot. As Alex watched uncomprehending, he pressed the rod into place, the gesture heavy with meaning. The motion was deliberate, carefully judged - obscene in its implication.

A finger of ice down ran down Alex’s spine. His eyes returned to Yassen's face. The inference seemed outlandish but Yassen’s gaze had narrowed into something almost predatory in its intensity. “You mean sex?” he said incredulously.

“Yes, Alex, I mean sex,” said Yassen with a touch of impatience. “I will save you in return for sex.”

Alex felt the world tilt on its axis. He had never thought of Yassen as a sexual being. To his younger self the Russian seemed almost neuter - beyond passion - the perfect killing machine. Now for the first time he wondered if Yassen’s inhuman self-control spoke instead of powerful desires held tightly in check. A muffled explosion interrupted his thoughts. There was the crash of falling masonry and a second, sharper explosion as the dust combusted. The roof around the stairwell sagged. A supporting wall had collapsed; the structure was beginning to crumble.

“Was that one of yours?” he said.

Another man might have looked abashed. “I thought I would have left by now.”

“Are there any more?”

“Yes.”

It was decision time. Alex’s sense of self-preservation warred with repugnance at the prispect of selling his body. “What about the border?” he said, seeking for any weakness in Yassen’s plan.

“I can get you across,” Yassen said. He lifted the rotor kite on to his shoulders and stepped up on to the parapet. He had spoken with complete confidence and Alex believed him. He glanced to the east. The helicopters had drawn closer. Shahed-278s - a lightweight military aircraft designed for surveillance and attack. He could see the rocket launchers mounted on the outside of the nearest. In another few minutes they would be within range. His choices appeared stark. Face down a barrage of guided missiles or take his chances with Yassen.

“All right,” he heard himself say. “But just once.”

Yassen was already shaking his head. “One night. Tonight.”

Alex felt his stomach lurch. A whole night? He glanced at the helicopters, tempted to change his mind, then back to Yassen who was patiently awaiting his response. In the end it wasn't fear which prompted his decision but curiosity. Over the years he had been tormented by a thousand unanswered questions - about his father, Scorpia, his past. Now someone with the answers stood before him. If he let Yassen leave, he might never get another chance to learn the truth.

“Six hours,” he said with a sense of inevitability.

“Eight.”

“Seven.”

“Seven,” said Yassen, with speed that belied his relaxed appearance. For a second his mask of indifference slipped and Alex saw the heat in his eyes, an unabashedly sexual hunger. Its intensity made him recoil despite the uneven footing. “Do I have your word?”

“Yes,” Alex said with the sinking feeling he had conceded far more than Yassen had hoped.

“Good. Come here.” Yassen held out a hand and pulled him up on to the parapet. His mask was firmly back in place, his expression serene. “You step here, and here.” Alex stepped on to the frame so his feet bracketed Yassen’s. He had grown taller in the intervening years. They were of a height now. “And hold on. I need my line of sight clear.”

Alex gripped the frame and leaned awkwardly forwards, tucking his chin into Yassen’s neck while trying to keep their bodies apart. He caught a whiff of gun oil and the almond scent of plastic explosive and felt the metal flex as he moved. “Is it strong enough to take us both?”

Yassen sounded supremely unconcerned. “It should be,” he said and tipped them into the void.

 

* * *

 

In the end there was nothing to worry about. Yassen flew them from the roof and set them down so gently Alex barely realised they’d landed. The buggy was hidden beneath a camouflage net at the bottom of a dry gully. Between them they carried it to the surface and dropped it on to the dunes. It started on the first attempt, the engine whirring into life at the press of a button.

“You said it was biometrically locked.”

Yassen just revved the engine. “Alex, you have a lot to learn. Get in.”

 

* * *

 

In a city full of grand hotels Yassen’s was far from the most ostentatious. Still the white marble walls and golden dome were a far cry from the dingy safe house where Alex had stayed since he’d arrived in central Asia. Their taxi dropped them at the main entrance, its dusty paintwork incongruous amongst the waiting row of white limousines. Yassen had already settled the fare and the driver accelerated away before a matching pair of burly porters had finished opening the hotel doors.

“Someone’s paying you well,” Alex said as they stepped inside the echoing foyer. After the heat and fumes of the taxi, the air was blessedly cool and scented with flowers. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and soft piano music played from hidden speakers.

“No one is paying me. I’ve retired.”

They were the first words Yassen had spoken to him since they had crossed the border. He’d piloted the buggy with care and complete focus, racing across the desert scrub at a breakneck pace until they had reached the highway. Once there he had driven decorously below the speed limit to the border. The guards had greeted him like an old friend and guided them through the checkpoints in record time, no papers required. At the far side the taxi had been waiting to take them to the hotel. Yassen had sat in the front chatting to the driver in Russian, about football as far as Alex could tell. He doubted Yassen liked football, but he would watch it to keep up the façade of ordinariness which he worked so hard to maintain. A reinforced glass partition separated the front and rear passenger seats and the car doors had no inside latches. It wasn’t clear if he was a passenger or a prisoner. He watched through the taxi’s grimy windows as the desert landscape transformed into city and wondered where they were going, and what to do when they arrived. The highways were wide and almost empty, the few cars driving carefully within their lanes. This was not a county where he could afford to be conspicuous.

“Retired?” he said. That would explain Yassen’s long disappearance. What better way for an assassin to retire than to be presumed dead? “Then why did you want the pictures?”

A light pressure on his shoulder steered him towards the far side of the lobby. “Insurance. To help me stay retired.”

“And now?”

“Ah.” Yassen gave a philosophical shrug. “Let’s just say - it’s better for me that no one has them, than the wrong people do.”

He caught Alex’s eye as he spoke and despite his apprehension, Alex gave a wry smile. They both knew their definitions of the ‘wrong people’ would be diametrically opposed. A lift arrived at their floor with a muffled chime but Yassen ignored it and ushered him instead towards a fire door. By the green sign above it, it led to the stairs. It was a precaution Alex had been taught in his own training – never use the lift for fear of ambush. The were almost at the threshold when he realised that he’d let his guard down. The lobby had been his best chance of slipping from Yassen's grip; once they were inside the hotel, escape would be almost impossible. He paused, a knot forming in his stomach.

Yassen checked his step. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” The lobby was almost completely deserted - a single guest checking in and the porters by the front door - but from the sound of clinking cutlery and murmured conversation a double door to their left led to a restaurant. It was early evening and guests would be assembling for dinner. If he could lose himself amongst them it would be the work of a few minutes to steal a jacket, a phone, a credit card. Sensing the direction of his thoughts, Yassen took him by the elbow. The gesture was that of a friendly acquaintance but his fingers bit into Alex’s flesh with a tightness that bordered on cruelty.

“Do not draw attention to yourself, Alex,” he advised. “People are watching.”

As if in confirmation of his words, one of the porters stirred, his attention caught by their continued hesitation. There was a burst of louder conversation and a woman in a bright headscarf walked from the direction of the restaurant, holding a small boy by the hand. Quick as thinking, Yassen pressed the elevator call button. The lift doors slid open.

“Please, Madame, after you.”

He motioned her to enter, then pushed Alex inside and took guard in front of the control panel. His face was expressionless once more; as though his occasional flashes of humanity were the disguise he wore to hide his true nature. The doors shut and the lift rose in smooth silence. The boy chattered happily to his mother in a language Alex didn’t recognise. Yassen and he stood in grim silence avoiding each other’s eyes. Stalemate. Neither of them were  willing to fight with a child present.

The room was on the fourth floor. The corridor was empty but Yassen had already taken his arm and was marching him along it at a pace which brooked no dissent.

“Keep your head down; there is CCTV in all the public areas,” he said, his voice low, his lips barely moving.

He was telling the truth, black lenses winked at Alex from every corner. He had no passport, no letter of invitation and no funds to pay a bribe. His position was precarious. If he caused a disturbance he risked becoming a guest of the authorities for an indefinite period. At the end of the corridor Yassen pulled him to a halt. Their room was set aside from the rest, a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the door. Yassen paused and examined the surroundings. When he was satisfied nothing had been disturbed, he opened the door and propelled Alex inside.


	2. Chapter 2

The room was immense and garishly decorated: yellow tassels on the scarlet curtains, gilt on the furniture and brightly woven rugs hanging from the walls. It was large enough to fit a sofa and a dining table in addition to the huge bed which dominated the surroundings, over six feet wide and covered with a crimson bedspread and a multitude of pillows. Alex avoided looking at it and went instead to the window. It took up the entirety of the far wall and faced out over the front of the hotel, looking across the city to the low mountains beyond. Evening was falling but the roads were still empty. Two metres below the window, a broad marble canopy ran across the front of the hotel, intended to shade guests from the fierce sun while they waited for their cars. From the canopy it would be an easy jump to one of the palm trees which flanked the hotel entrance. The drop didn’t bother him – he’d fallen further and walked away – but the window was a sealed unit, the glass an inch thick and toughened to withstand accidental impact. None of the ornate furniture looked strong enough to crack it. Without a means of shattering the glass, the only way out was back the way they had come in.

Yassen moved silently around the room checking nothing had been disturbed. When his scrutiny was complete, he pulled off his jacket and linked his hands together, stretching them towards the ceiling. Beneath he was wearing a lightweight black polo neck; a leather shoulder holster containing a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol hung below his left arm. The sight made Alex's stomach drop. It wasn't the weapon which unnerved him as much as the implications of its presence. He considered himself a seasoned field agent but in the last six hours he’d allowed himself to be disarmed, smuggled across the border and imprisoned, all without Yassen needing to lay a finger on his gun. It had been a virtuoso display of soft coercion. Yassen caught the direction of his gaze, dropped his arms and strolled, with apparent casualness, to join him. They stood side by side looking out across the empty city, their twin reflections floating in the glass. Yassen’s expression was calm and self-assured. Alex could see that he was presenting a less convincing front. He was tired, thirsty and dirty, and he looked all three.

“Is there anything to drink?”

Yassen indicated a glass-fronted minibar with a jerk of his chin. “Help yourself.”

The bar was well stocked with snacks and drinks. He took a Coke and drank it in a single draught. It was cold enough to make his temples ache, and sweet and wet, nectar to his parched throat. He opened a second bottle and drank that too, more slowly. The sugar revived him and he looked around the room with fresh eyes. There had to be something here which he could use to his advantage. The empty Coke bottle caught his attention but Yassen was already taking it from him.

“You will want to wash,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Go. I will order food.”

 

* * *

 

The bathroom was similar to the bedroom in both scale and opulence; Alex had stayed in smaller apartments. Ornate turquoise mosaic covered the walls, a walk-in shower took up one side of the room and an immense marble sink most of another. The third side had a built-in TV to entertain guests during their ablutions. A bewildering array of toiletries lined the shelves beneath but a quick search uncovered nothing that might help him escape. There were no nail files or glass bottles or sewing kits. No razor blades or tweezers or conveniently forgotten pack of hairpins for him to repurpose. Not for the first time he missed Smithers and his never-ending supply of gadgets. His pockets were empty. He had a twenty-dollar bill hidden in his boot but that was all. A neatly stacked pile of turquoise towels caught his attention. He picked one up and twisted it in his hands. It was made of heavy Egyptian cotton, dense and silky soft. It was possible to throttle a man with a towel - he even knew how - but practice was different to theory and he wasn’t sure he wanted Yassen dead again so soon, even assuming he could manage the deed. Undecided. he put thoughts of violence to one side and tried to work out how to use the shower. The pipes groaned and banged alarmingly before  water sprung from a dozen jets in the walls and ceiling, and steam filled the air. He stood for long moments under the warm water, allowing it to sluice away the sweat and dirt that clung to his skin and ease the tension in his shoulders before beginning to wash. He was only half-finished when a draft across his wet back told him the bathroom door was open. When he looked around a dark figure was standing in the centre of the room, its outline shrouded in steam.

“What do you want?” he said, forcing his voice to stay level. He picked up a bottle of shower gel and weighed it in his hand. He was certain he had closed the door and bolted it.

“A shower.” Yassen’s voice echoed eerily off the tiles.

Alex swallowed, keenly aware that only an opaque glass screen divided them. “I won’t be long.”

There was no response. For a second he dared hope his words would be enough to send Yassen away. Then Yassen’s head appeared around the side of the screen. Alex shrunk backwards, holding the shower gel in front of his crotch like some parody of a nervous virgin, but Yassen had other priorities. He glanced around the stall, his gaze sweepingly dispassionately over Alex’s naked body.

“It’s big enough for two,” he decided and withdrew with equal speed. There was the unmistakable sound of a zipper sliding open, followed by the soft fall of cloth. The dark figure on the far side of the screen became a pale one.

“Can’t you wait until I’ve finished?” Alex said, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

“You’ve been ten minutes already. Besides the water here is temperamental. Sometimes it is hot, sometimes less so,” Yassen said and stepped into the stall before Alex could argue further.

He had a confused impression of a pale, hard-muscled body emerging through the steam and jerked his gaze to shoulder height. Yassen turned his face to the spray with evident pleasure, letting it soak his skin. With his hair dark with water and slicked to his head he reminded Alex of an otter: smooth, sleek, bright-eyed. Sharp-toothed. Yassen’s gaze met his. For the first time he seemed to notice Alex’s frozen consternation.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s not sex. It’s just washing.” He held out his hand for the shower gel.

Alex didn’t move, wary of doing anything which could be construed as invitation. After a second Yassen clicked his tongue in annoyance and plucked the bottle from his nerveless hand.

“You English, always so prudish about nudity,” he said and pointedly turned his back.

The words sounded like a challenge. They reminded him of the banter which went on in the showers after soccer practice. He hesitated, then took a deep breath. “We can’t all be crazy Russians jumping into frozen lakes,” he hazarded.

To his relief, Yassen gave a grunt of amusement. “You’re lucky. If we were in a Russian banya, I would be beating you with birch twigs.”

It appeared he had passed the test. He turned back to the water and resumed rinsing the soap from his skin but any sense of reprieve was short-lived; a prickle down his spine told him Yassen had looked around.

“You’ve cut your hair.”

His hands paused, then resumed with an effort. “Yes.” It had been a spur of a moment decision - an attempt to put childish things behind him. He wasn’t sure if he liked the result. It made him look older, his eyes more shadowed. A younger, more sombre version of his uncle greeted him in the mirror every morning.

“I liked it longer,” Yassen said. His voice was low and closer than it had been, though Alex hadn’t heard him move. He stared straight ahead, adrenaline surging though his veins. “There’s something in it,” Yassen added in his normal voice.

“Oh.” Alex put his hand to his head. Sure enough a chunk of something soft and plastic was caught near his crown. “Bitumen?”

Yassen leaned closer and sniffed. His proximity sent a wave of goosebumps up Alex’s spine. “Semtex, I think.”

Alex tugged at the lump unsuccessfully. The heat had caused it to soften and it smeared a waxy residue on his fingers as he pulled, spreading through his hair.

Yassen made a noise of exasperation. “Wait.”

He stepped from the shower and took a bottle from the shelf beneath the television. For a moment he fiddled with something - Alex couldn’t see what though he craned his neck. Then he heard the pop of a lid and a thick floral scent filled the air. Jasmine and something more chemical - a strong solvent note which made him cough.

“What’s that?” he said.

“Shampoo.” Yassen turned towards him and Alex realised with horror he was staring, and snapped his gaze back to the wall. A change in the sound of the falling water and the stir of air told him Yassen was standing behind him. Before he could ask more, something cold and heavily mentholated was being daubed across his hair.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said. Apprehension formed a lump in his throat and the words came low and uncertain.

“You can’t see it properly.”

He felt his head being tilted backwards - ten points of pressure pressing lightly against his scalp - then Yassen began pulling shampoo though his hair. He stayed motionless, all too aware Yassen could break his neck with a simple twist of his wrists. The stall became very quiet and very steamy. Yassen worked slowly and methodically, drawing the suds into lather, working from Alex’s forehead to the nape of his neck and from his temples to his crown. The only sound was the hiss and patter of falling water and the tiny soft scratching of his hair rubbing against his scalp. The turquoise mosaics shimmered in the hazy air and the smell of jasmine grew sweet and cloying. A strange lethargy settled in Alex’s bones. The skin of his head tingled where the shampoo touched. The heat, the heavy perfume and the slow movement of Yassen’s fingers combined to root him to the spot. A staticky hum began in his scalp and spread down his neck - a pleasant, mild euphoria. The muscles of his neck and shoulders began to loosen and roll. Soap suds streamed down his body, running in rivulets over his chest and slipping between his shoulder blades. The menthol left a cool burning in its wake. Such was his torpor he didn’t notice the first time something brushed against his hip. It was only when it returned, that the touch registered. A hot, insistent presence.

“No,” he said, his lassitude evaporating. “You said-”

Yassen didn’t give him a chance to finish. He tipped Alex’s head backwards, examining his hair for any traces of residue. “All gone,” he announced and stepped from the stall.

The abrupt change in mood took Alex by surprise. He blinked shampoo from his eyes, barely daring to believe he had escaped so lightly. When after a minute Yassen didn’t reappear, he gathered up his courage and peered around the side of the screen. Yassen was standing by the sink drying his hair, a towel slung around his shoulders, a second around his hips. Their eyes met in the bathroom mirror. Once again, Yassen had no trouble discerning his thoughts.

“I want a drink and something to eat,” he said. “Then I will concern myself with you.”

He smoothed his hair into order and walked out of the door. His absence left the room feeling very empty. Alex took a deep breath and leaned against a wall, his heart pounding. A reprieve, not a commutation of sentence; Yassen meant to hold him to his word. He racked his brain for some weak spot or vulnerability he might exploit, but his thoughts ran slow and ponderous. He felt strangely detached from his surroundings, heavy with lethargy, unable to formulate any kind of plan, though he stood beneath the pummelling jets until they spluttered and ran cold. When he could linger no longer, he towelled himself dry and searched about for his things. He found the shampoo easily enough: a plain white bottle labelled in black Cyrillic script, but his clothes were nowhere to be seen.

 

* * *

 

Yassen was dressed and opening a tall bottle by the time Alex emerged with the largest towel he could find wrapped firmly around his waist. Room service had arrived. A covered dish sat in the centre of the table and a tea-pot steamed beneath a bright cosy. It was a bizarrely domestic tableau.

“Vodka,” Yassen said, showing him the label. It was the national brand, embellished with a picture of the former president. “Not Russian, but it will do.”

He filled two shot glasses to the rim so the vodka brimmed softly to the surface, almost but not quite overflowing. He had changed into slim-fitting jeans and a thin jersey while Alex lingered in the bathroom and his feet were bare. The clothes were well made but anonymous with no flashy logos or labels or unusual features to draw the eye. It was the perfect outfit for an assassin, Alex thought. Yassen would pass by and be forgotten before he was out of sight.

“What have you done with my clothes?”

“They are being cleaned,” said Yassen. “I left you something on the bed.”

He walked over to the window, ostensibly to admire the panorama of mountains, marble buildings and silent boulevards which spread before them. The sun was setting, washing the bone-white city with shades of pink. The first stars shone high in the desert sky. In other circumstances Alex might have appreciated the view, the silence, the fleeting sense of peace, but tonight the city’s empty streets seemed ominous, offering no prospect of escape or hope of sanctuary. On the bed he found a white T-shirt and a pair of navy blue shorts. Like Yassen’s outfit, they were completely plain. He knew if he searched the room he would find the wardrobe was bare and the cupboards empty. There would be no shoes under the bed, no spare change in the drawers and certainly no Glock hanging conveniently from a coat hook. And even if he managed to escape he wouldn’t get far. Yassen had made sure of that. This wasn’t a city where a tourist could walk around in his underwear unremarked. He pulled them on anyway, preferring the psychological advantage of being dressed. The T-shirt was tight across the chest but it fit.

"I'm finished," he said, foolishly.

Yassen turned back from the window. To Alex's relief, he let the outfit pass without comment. "So," he said and indicated the waiting vodka, “we live to fight another day.”

Alex picked up a glass. The liquid within it was as clear as water but that didn’t mean it was safe. Would Yassen go as far as to drug him, or was he hoping alcohol alone would lower Alex’s inhibitions? The question certainly added an element of interest to pre-dinner drinks.

“Good health,” he said in Russian and raised his glass.

“‘Cheers,’” said Yassen and knocked back his shot with a practised toss of his head.

Alex took a cautious sip and caught the full effect of the fumes on the back of his throat. He coughed, not accidentally spilling half of it on to the carpet.

“Careful,” Yassen chided. “It is not a sipping vodka.” He frowned as Alex continued coughing. “You have drunk spirits before?”

“Of course,” Alex said, nettled.

“Of course,” Yassen repeated. He didn’t smile, but his upper lip twitched. “You’re a man now.” He turned to the table with sudden decision. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

Dinner was a pilaf - the mound of golden rice studded with vegetables and mutton which Alex had eaten a dozen times since he’d arrived in central Asia. This one looked richer than most, each grain of rice plump and gleaming. He hadn’t expected to be allowed a knife or a fork, and he was correct;. They had a plate and a spoon each and served themselves.

Yassen ate as he did everything: efficiently and with full concentration. “You should try it,” he said after a few minutes, “it’s good.”

“I’m not hungry,” he lied. In truth, his stomach felt hollow but he couldn't swallow and the rice stuck to the roof of his mouth like grit. Yassen had almost finished. Time was running out and he was no closer to forming a plan for escape. He took another spoonful for show and pushed it around his plate.

Yassen’s pale eyes missed nothing but he made no comment. “Do you want tea?” he asked when his plate was clean.

The question was so commonplace and yet so incongruous Alex almost laughed. “Why not?”

The tea poured into their waiting glasses in a cloud of fragrant steam. There was hot water to dilute it and jam for sweetening, dark fruit in a glossy syrup. The heat settled Alex’s stomach, and he took some solace in the familiar ritual of adding milk and stirring it in. Yassen took his tea black, spooning a little of the jam into a saucer to eat alongside it. The formalities complete, they turned their chairs to the window and sat in silence, looking out at the last of the sunset. To Alex, it felt as though they were tongue-tied guests at a particularly intimate _soiree._ What Yassen made of their genteel charade, he couldn’t tell.

When the sun had finally dipped below the horizon, Yassen rose and moved around the room, soft-footed, turning on the lamps until half a dozen pools of light glowed in the dimness. In their golden light, the room became sumptuous rather than garish, the strident reds and yellows of the day muted into shades of burgundy and faded bronze. It was a room designed to be seen at night and in company, Alex realised. Why else the low, plush sofa? Why else the many pillows? Why else the wide, wide bed? He was struck once more by the silence which surrounded them. The only sound was the low hum of air conditioning. There was no noise from distant televisions, no banging of fire doors, no chatter of passing guests. Perhaps Yassen had booked the entire floor to ensure his privacy. Perhaps he’d booked the entire hotel. Perhaps he’d had Alex under surveillance for the past four years, waiting for this moment. Nothing would surprise him .

Yassen poured himself more tea and held out his hand for Alex’s glass. “Try the jam,” he said. “It’s black cherry. Very traditional.”

Alex shook his head. “Not my thing.”

“No?” He refilled Alex’s glass and handed it to him. “How will you know if you don’t try it?”

“I just - know.”

Yassen shrugged, his shoulders shifting beneath his thin jersey. “As you like.”

He took a little more of the jam and sucked it thoughtfully from his spoon. Then he retrieved his glass and went to sit on the bed, his back against the headboard, his knees bent. The air-conditioning unit switched off with a sigh and the silence expanded and grew around them, pressing lightly on Alex’s ears until he could hear the surge of the blood through his temples and the tiny liquid clicks of his eyelids when he blinked.

“It’s a nice night,” he said, his voice unnaturally loud.

Yassen inclined his head and sipped his tea, watching over the rim of the glass with his pale, disquieting gaze.

“Clear sky,” said Alex. “Lots of stars.”

“Yes.”

“Probably a sunny day tomorrow.”

“We’re in a desert,” Yassen observed. He finished his tea and placed the glass on the bedside table with the smallest chink. “And we are not here to talk about the weather, Alex.”

Alex’s chest tightened until he could barely breathe. Here it came.

“You promised me a night.”

“Seven hours,” he corrected, “which started when we walked through the door, by the way.”

It was the sheerest bravado but to his surprise Yassen laughed a little, quietly. The food and the vodka had taken the edge from his mood. “Is that so? Then I shall have to make the best of my time. How long do I have left, Mr Tiimekeeper?”

Alex glanced about. An old-fashioned travel alarm clock glowed the hour from the bedside table. “Five and a half hours.” His palms were sweating. It took all his self-control not to wipe them on his T-shirt. He didn't want to think what Yassen might do in that remaining time.

“Oh well. Long enough.” Yassen leaned against the headboard and considered him. “Have you been with a man before?” he said eventually. The words were quietly spoken, delivered without particular emphasis.

“I’m not gay!” he blurted.

It wasn’t an answer. Yassen rested his forearms on his knees and waited for a reply. The silence grew in strength until it felt like a living, tangible thing. Eventually, Alex shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“Huh.” It was impossible to tell what that noise denoted - surprise, satisfaction, or simple acknowledgement. “A woman?”

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?” There was a long pause. Yassen’s head tilted in enquiry. “You don’t remember?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t remember,” Yassen concluded. “There have been so many.”

Hot blood rose in Alex’s cheeks and he was grateful for the low lighting. There had been only one, as he suspected Yassen had guessed. “It’s none of your business!”

Yassen’s teeth gleamed in the lamp light. “Come here,” he said and patted the mattress by his side. His voice was mild but it wasn’t a request.


	3. Chapter 3

The humming tension intensified. Alex hesitated, uncertain whether it was more dangerous to refuse or obey. Yassen waited, unspeaking, motionless apart from the flicker of his eyes. Only when Alex stood did he stir, stretching out his legs and shifting towards the centre of the bed. He ignored the unspoken invitation and perched on the side of the mattress, one foot on the floor, ready to bolt. Yassen studied his expression. When he spoke, his voice was soft, entirely reasonable.

“Do you like kissing, Alex? Have you kissed?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Of course,” Yassen repeated gravely. He nodded. “And where have you kissed?”

“Where?” Stupidly, his first thought was of Cornwall and kissing Sabina on Fistral beach.

“Have you kissed here, for example?” Yassen said. He brushed his knuckles against Alex’s cheekbone, a fleeting touch, over before he could flinch away.

“Yes.”

“And here?” He touched the hollow of Alex’s jaw, fingers lingering at the point where his pulse beat a hectic rhythm against the surface of his skin.

He swallowed. “Yeah.” It was hard not to sound defensive, though he knew Yassen’s intention was to confuse and disorientate him.

“And here?” Yassen was saying. He cupped Alex's chin and rubbed a thumb over his lower lip. “Have you kissed here?”

“I’m not-” he began before Yassen’s mouth covered his.

When he was younger, he’d thought of the Russian’s lips as chiselled - well-shaped but, like the man himself, more akin to stone than flesh. He’d been wrong. The lips pressed to his were warm and mobile, and when Yassen took advantage of his indignantly open mouth to glide his tongue inside, his breath tasted of tea and cherry jam.

“Yeah,” he mumbled when Yassen pulled back. “There too.”

“So you’ve kissed lots.” Yassen tossed some of the more intrusive pillows to the floor and drew him further onto the bed. “Show me.” 

“What?”

“Show me how you’ve kissed.”

“I-” He suspected mockery but Yassen’s expression was serious. “I-” he tried again and floundered to a halt, utterly out of his depth.

Eventually Yassen grew bored of waiting. “Was it like this?”

He cupped Alex’s head and pulled him closer, his blunt nails running lightly across the skin of his scalp. Alex smelled again the heavy scent of jasmine and his lips parted without conscious volition. This time Yassen’s kiss was deeper, the touch of his tongue a calculated caress. He sealed their mouths together and stole Alex’s breath away, rolling them so they lay half-entwined on the crimson bedspread. When at last he drew back, Alex’s heart was thumping. He liked kissing. He would have said that he was good at it. He’d gone past the stage of banging foreheads and clashing teeth; he’d discovered the sensual slide of tongues and soft press of lips. But none of those kisses had aroused this panicky mixture of fear and excitement pounding through his veins.

“Not really,” he said, honestly.

Yassen laughed outright then, his breath a gust of warm air against Alex’s neck. When he raised his head the skin at the corners of his eyes was still crinkled with mirth, and for the first time Alex wondered how old he was. When they’d first met he’d thought Yassen was in his late twenties, but he’d been trained by Alex’s father, before Alex was even born. From a distance he looked as smooth-faced as ever, but with their faces only inches apart, Alex could see the fine lines which ran between his eyebrows and scored his brow. He revised his estimate up five years and felt an unexpected pang. Though he had cheated death, even Yassen Gregorovich couldn’t hold back the march of time. Yassen sobered, his eyes searching Alex’s, trying to divine his thoughts. For once, the answer seemed to elude him.

“I need a drink,” he said and stood with a suddenness which made Alex jump. “Do you want one?”

“No.” Now more than ever he needed all his wits about him.

Yassen picked up Alex’s unfinished glass of vodka and swallowed it in a single gulp. When he was done, he set the glass on the table and stood looking out into the night. For a moment Alex dared hope he was having second thoughts, but Yassen was simply using the time to regroup. He stretched his arms behind his back, then pulled off his jersey, throwing it so it landed softly across the back of the sofa. With the lamps on and darkness outside, the window became a mirror reflecting back the scene within: two men, the first, lean and smooth, standing by the window, a second bulkier figure sprawled across the bed. He was broader than Yassen now, Alex saw with a sense of disorientation, and deeper in the chest. The discovery unsettled him.

“Can you close the curtains?”

The muscles in Yassen’s back flexed as he turned his head. “Why?”

“Someone might see in.”

“No one can see in.”

Of course not. Yassen had evaded the attention of the world’s best security services for four years. He would have chosen the room with great care to ensure it wasn’t overlooked, vetted the hotel owners, made the booking via a series of proxy websites and paid with a cloned credit card. Nothing would have been left to chance. For the first time in years, Alex had dropped off the radar. No one knew where he was. Not his adopted family, not the CIA, not MI6, not VAJA. The thought did nothing to quell the butterflies in his stomach.

“Besides,” Yassen added, turning to face him. “I like to see out.”

As he turned, Alex caught sight of the long line which ran down his neck, but most of his attention was riveted on Yassen’s chest. A large scar ran almost to the collarbone, pink and a little shiny still. It was the mark of Damien Cray’s bullet: the bullet which Yassen had taken on his behalf. Seeing it sent a visceral shock down his spine. Whatever Yassen’s other deceptions, that much had been real.

Yassen caught him looking. “Not so pretty,” he said, running his thumb along the scar's jagged outline.

Alex didn’t answer at once. In daylight Yassen looked pale and a little bloodless, but in the lamp light he glowed. The skin of his torso was hairless save for a fine line which began at his navel and widened as it descended his flat stomach. But for the scar on his chest he could have been mistaken for a marble statue, each muscle clearly defined like a Renaissance homage to the heroic male nude.

Too late, he realised he was staring. “Yeah,” he managed through a scratchy throat, “pretty ugly.”

Yassen shrugged.“You won’t notice if you close your eyes.”

For want of a better alternative, Alex obeyed. The mattress dipped and Yassen’s lips again sought his. Despite his teasing, it was nothing like kissing a girl. His lips were firm, surrounded by a faint prickle of stubble, and the heat of his bare torso burnt through Alex’s T-shirt like a brand. And there was the scent of his skin: soapy-clean on the surface, but underneath a darker, muskier, note - warm and slightly bitter. It was this scent, more than the hard planes of Yassen’s chest, more than his dense muscularity, more even than the insistent heat which had returned to press against Alex’s hip, which whispered into the back of his brain that it was a man who embraced him, a man whose tongue twined around his, a _man_.

His eyes flew open and he saw with surprise that Yassen’s eyelids were lowered, his eyelashes casting faint shadows upon his cheeks. It was a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability and seeing it Alex knew his plan. It sprung into his mind fully formed - not a good plan, but the only plan he had. If he’d had a gun, he could have shot out the window and jumped to safety. If he’d had a mobile phone, any mobile phone, there was a number he could have dialled to summon help. If he’d had a cigarette lighter, it would have been the work of minutes to douse a pillow with vodka and set off the smoke alarm. He didn’t have a gun, a mobile phone or a cigarette lighter - Yassen had seen to that - he had the clothes he was wearing and his own native wit.

He placed a hand on the hot skin of Yassen’s chest and let it slide up to his shoulder. It was a clumsy enough caress, tentative, and a little jerky, but it made Yassen’s body coil in response. He deepened the kiss and pulled Alex closer, rolling his hips in a slow, sinuous wave which pressed the hard ridge of his cock tight to Alex’s belly. The sensation made him flinch in surprise and Yassen broke the kiss, drawing back to examine his expression.

“You like that, or you don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” said Alex and he didn’t have to fake his confusion. “I'm too hot. I- Let me-”

He pushed against Yassen’s torso until he rolled obligingly to one side, then took a deep breath and pulled off his T-shirt. And there it was - a reaction even Yassen couldn’t control: the sudden dilation of his pupils - visible only because of the paleness of his eyes. Seeing it, Alex knew his intuition had been correct. He had a measure of power here - if he dared but use it.

“Well, now,” Yassen said, his gaze slipping over Alex’s skin like a caress.

“What?” It took all his self-control not to fold his arms and shield himself from scrutiny - he too carried his fair share of scars, though he wore them with far less _élan_.

There was a long, weighted pause. Yassen’s eyes tracked up and down his body, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles of his stomach, the blond hair which dusted his chest and belly.

“You have grown since we last met,” he said eventually, a slow smile curving his lips. His eyelids lowered and he pulled Alex towards him, wrapping a possesive arm around his waist.

“Wait,” Alex said as their lips were about to touch. “Can I have some vodka?”

As he hoped, Yassen paused, frowning. “I thought you didn't want any?”

It didn’t take much acting ability to drop his gaze and pretend a shyness in desperate need of Dutch courage. “I've changed my mind.” The ruse worked. Yassen's frown faded and he lent forward to press a quick kiss to the hot skin of Alex's neck.

“Alex,” he murmered, low into his ear, “Sasha. Don’t worry. I will make it good for you.”

The words were uttered with such complete conviction that Alex’s skin grew warm despite his trepidation. To his relief, Yassen didn’t wait for a reply. He was already on his feet, the muscles of his torso shifting as stood. Alex’s mouth went dry at the sight. In repose, Yassen appeared compact and well-toned, a man who took good care of himself. In motion, it was clear he was far more than that. He moved with perfect poise and balance - a level of physical conditioning which took decades to achieve. Without vanity, Alex knew himself to be in excellent physical shape - fast, young, strong – but in comparison to Yassen he was callow and rough-hewn. Outclassed, he realised with a sinking heart, but it was too late to turn back; Yassen was already at the table and pouring the vodka.. He got up and went to stand the window, staring at the night-time city with unseeing eyes.

“It’s not cold,” said Yassen, moving silent-footed to stand alongside him and handing him the glass.

“It’s fine.” He took a sip and pulled a face, not needing to pretend his reaction.

“You still don’t like it.”

“No.” It reminded him of paint stripper. He took a second, larger, sip then set the glass on the table next to Yassen’s, precariously close to the edge.

“It’s not a good vodka,” Yassen agreed and leaned in for another kiss.

It was now or never. With a smile and careless swing of his hand, Alex turned to meet him. His action swept the glasses from the table and they tumbled in slow motion to the floor, the spilt vodka splashing into the air. Yassen gave an exclamation and bent reflexively to catch them. For a split second he was off-centre and distracted. Alex waited until he had turned his head, then caught up the heavy glass vodka bottle and swung it towards the base of his skull.

Adrenaline spiked through his veins and time slowed to a languid crawl, each moment taking on a crystalline clarity. Alerted by some sixth sense, Yassen looked up and saw the reflection of the bottle descending towards him. He threw up his arm - a messy, defensive block - in time to deflect the blow but not to counter it. His elbow took the brunt of the impact and the bottle flew from Alex’s hand, spinning through the air in a slow arc. Disarmed and his intentions laid bare, he pivoted on the ball of his foot and unleashed a brutal kick at Yassen’s throat. It was a dirty move, one which would have had him banned from every dojo on the planet, but bitter experience had taught him to fight to win, or not at all.

This time Yassen was ready. He twisted sideways, outside the arc of the kick, and took the impact on his shoulder. The shock robbed him of his impetus and Yassen gave him no time to regroup. He spun, using the momentum of the kick to power him and caught Alex by the calf, pinning his leg beneath his arm. For an instant they faced each other, perfectly balanced, Alex on one leg, Yassen on two. Yassen’s expression was calm, almost meditative. Then he attacked, moving with an inhuman grace. He swept out Alex’s supporting leg with an easy hook of his heel and shoved him backwards towards the bed with a force which pivoted him high into the air. Alex slammed on to the mattress in an explosion of pillows, sliding across the silken bedspread with the momentum of his landing. The next moment he was on his feet, dodging and lunging for the door but Yassen already had him by the shoulder and was throwing him back on to the bed. This time he landed face first, the breath driven from his lungs, and Yassen was upon him before he could react, pinning his wrist behind his back and wrestling him to the sheets. The vodka bottle completed its descent as they struggled, landing on the mattress with a dull thud which made them both look up. It bounced once, and thumped on to the floor.

“You’re getting slow,” Alex said into the silence which followed. “Four years ago, you’d have caught the bottle.”

Yassen leaned over the side of the bed and rolled the vodka out of reach before replying.

“You’re getting sloppy,” he said. He wasn’t even out of breath. “Four years ago, you wouldn’t have telegraphed your punches so obviously. What was your plan? Knock me out and steal my clothes?”

Alex did his best to shrug. “Something like that.”

“‘Something like that’?” Yassen repeated. “You don’t even know? What is this, Alex? We had an agreement.”

“Made under duress-” Alex began, but Yassen cut him off with a bark of scornful laughter.

“You call that duress now? That’s what the SAS call duress?” He twisted Alex’s arm with a calculated viciousness, all the more frightening for being so carefully controlled. Fire shot across his shoulder and he bit his lip,  refusing to cry out. Yassen held him for five long seconds while his tendons shrieked in agony before slackening his grip. “You know nothing about duress. You had a choice. Maybe not a good choice, but you had a choice.”

“You’d have done the same,” said Alex, when he could speak.

“I would not have failed,” said Yassen. It was not a boast. He flipped Alex onto his back and held him by the throat, his fingers pressing where his lips had touched only minutes earlier. His grip was feather-light but the threat in his eyes was palpable. “Listen to me. If we fight, you will lose. Maybe in another four years time you will win. But here, today, you will lose.”

Alex knew he was telling the truth.There had been nothing in their skirmish to suggest Yassen had lost his edge. "Want to toss a coin instead?” .

Yassen didn’t smile. “No.” His indulgent mood had evaporated. Danger rolled from his skin in invisible waves. When he continued, his voice was flat, uncompromising. “I would prefer you willing, Alex.”

Alex forced his voice to stay calm. “But you’ll have me either way?”

Yassen didn’t reply, instead he nudged Alex’s legs apart and lowered himself to lie between them. The position was blatantly, unabashedly sexual, intended to leave him in no doubt that the events of the night could have only one conclusion.

He raised his chin, determined not to show fear, and saw a flicker of emotion cross Yassen’s face, gone before he could identify it. In the next moment Yassen dipped his head. This time his target was not Alex's mouth but the exposed skin of his chest. He was thorough and unhurried in his investigations: biting lightly at Alex's nipples until they tightened in reluctant response before nuzzling the smoothness of his inner elbow and lifting Alex’s arms so he could nose into the soft hair beneath his armpits. Every so often one of his hands would drift lower to stroke between Alex’s thighs and trace the outline of his cock through his underwear. The soft cotton provided little barrier to his touch and the third time he ran his fingers across the placket, Alex’s hips stirred in response. The adrenaline from their fight had left him primed and restless, his body ached for firmer pressure even while his mind baulked. Sensing a weakening in his resolve, Yassen moved closer. He kissed the hollow of Alex’s throat then nipped along his collarbone with small, sharp teeth. His caresses were leisurely; his breathing slow. He seemed in no hurry to extend his explorations, though the thin material of Alex’s shorts had begun to tent in nervous anticipation. It would only be a matter of time, though, Alex knew: before Yassen slid a palm down his stomach, only a matter of time before he slipped his hand beneath the waistband of Alex’s shorts. Surely, it was only a matter of time. A slow tension crawled up his spine and he clamped his jaw shut on his growing frustration. He wasn’t going to ask, no matter how long Yassen teased.

Yassen shifted above him, his fingers twined in Alex’s hair and his thumbs rubbing slow circles over his temples. His gaze had returned to Alex’s mouth as though it held a particular fascination for him. It was hard to reconcile the man dropping soft kisses on his lips with the cold-blooded assassin he knew Yassen to be, but his pleasure in the act was obvious and unfeigned and his mouth warm and persuasive, intent on coaxing a response. Before Alex knew it, his lips had parted beneath the delicate probing of Yassen’s tongue. He felt a triumphant smile against his mouth, but it was already too late for second thoughts.

A series of slow, drugging kisses later and Alex could barely remember his own name. His vision had shrunk to a narrow tunnel with Yassen in its centre. The taste of vodka and sweet cherry filled his mouth and the air was thick with a heady mix of musk, warm skin, and jasmine shampoo. A flicker of doubt played at the edge of his mind but Yassen began to move against him with an easy roll of his hips and he forgot about it in the addictive drag of denim on skin. His arms were around Yassen’s neck, the hard planes of his back gathering and sliding beneath his palms. He felt a wave of building pressure; a familiar surging heat and realised with sudden panic that he was on the verge of climax. He tried to slide free, but Yassen’s body was a heavy weight pinning him to the bed. He tried to wrench away his mouth, but Yassen made a noise of dissent and pursued him, hardening the kiss. At the last moment he tightened his muscles, trying to hold back the gathering wave, but it only grew in intensity until it overwhelmed him and he shuddered in helpless capitulation. A second later he felt the evidence of his pleasure spurt hot and wet across his skin, and screwed his eyes shut in mortification. His sole consolation was that he had managed to choke back the muffled noises which threatened to escape his throat.

Yassen’s hips stilled. He lifted his head. “Alex?”

He didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say. Even if the dark mark spreading across his shorts didn’t tell its own story, what had happened must be obvious from his flushed skin and frenetic breathing.

All too soon his fears were proved correct; Yassen’s voice became amused. “Well, I’m flattered, really. Had I known you were so eager, I would not have made you wait.”

A cool hand on his forehead pushed the damp hair away from his brow and he opened his eyes. Yassen’s face was inches above his, observing his reactions with interest. Like a cat toying with a mouse, he thought and felt a fresh wave of colour wash across his face.

Yassen watched, enjoying his confusion. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll be ready again soon.”

His confidence bordered on gloating and somewhere in Alex’s brain a warning bell rang. “What makes you say that?” he said, the words coming slow and sluggish through the heavy lassitude which pinned him to the bed.

Yassen shrugged and disentangled himself so they lay side by side. The rush of cool air made Alex shiver, though a second ago he had been too hot.

“Call it intuition.”

The implication was obvious - youth would shorten his refractory period - but there was a creamy complacency to Yassen’s expression which Alex didn’t trust. He frowned. It was hard to think with shocks of pleasure still rippling through his muscles, but he distrusted his confusion too. Even on an empty stomach, two sips of vodka should not have been enough to cause him this level of befuddlement.

“What have you done?”

Yassen kissed a slow line down his torso before replying. “Do you feel something?” he said. And Alex did - a resurgence of desire, though his seed was still wet on his skin.

“Feel what?” he said but Yassen didn’t answer, distracted by the soft hair which dusted Alex’s stomach, rubbing his cheek against it like a cat. “Feel what?” Alex insisted. He shook Yassen by the shoulder. “Yassen, what have you done?”

Yassen looked up at the touch, quick and feral, and gave him a sharp-edged smile. “Just something to make you more relaxed.”

“Relaxed?” Some kind of disinhibitor? An aphrodisiac? Ice water ran through his veins. “There’s no such thing.”

“As you like.” Yassen had other preoccupations. He followed the hair with the tip of his tongue until it disappeared beneath Alex’s shorts and tugged at the waistband with his teeth. “Can I have these back?”

There was little point in trying to preserve his modesty now. Alex lifted his hips, and let Yassen strip the shorts away, his mind turning in circles, uncertain what to think. If such drugs _did_ exist, Yassen could plausibly have access to them through his underworld contacts. But they’d eaten from the same dish; drunk vodka from the same bottle, poured their tea from the same pot. That left the milk or the Coke, but Yassen couldn’t have known for certain he would drink either, and if he knew one thing about Yassen, it was that he would leave nothing to chance. If he had administered a drug, he would make sure Alex ingested it. Put it into his mouth if he had to, or- Once again a warning bell rang in his brain, louder this time.

“My God,” he whispered. The shampoo? At the time, he’d thought Yassen’s actions odd, a clumsy attempt at seduction. Now, he remembered instead Yassen's insistence on applying the shampoo for him, its strange clinical scent, and the weird lethargy which had rooted him to the spot. He cursed his bashfulness. Had he dared turn his head, he would have noticed if Yassen had donned a pair of gloves.

Yassen dropped the shorts onto the floor and crawled back up the bed on his hands and knees. “‘My God’, what?” he enquired.

“The shampoo,” he said trying to keep his voice steady.

“What about it?”

“There was something in it, wasn’t there?”

“Something in it?”

“Yassen, tell me what you’ve done.”

There was a long pause. At first Alex thought he might refuse to answer, but Yassen was just making himself comfortable. He selected a pillow and tucked it beneath his head, then pulled Alex to him, so he lay with his back against his chest. “Have you heard of the honey trap?” he said.

Alex’s mouth went dry. “Yes.” The seduction of a foreign agent by enemy powers.

Yassen traced a figure of eight on his hip before continuing. “In the Cold War, it was a popular tactic. There was a recognised protocol, even: a pretty woman, or a handsome man, some drinks beforehand to ease the way. A few incriminating photos, a little blackmail. Very easy. Very straightforward. But sometimes there were problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Perhaps the target doesn’t drink, or perhaps something stronger is needed. Maybe they are…” Yassen’s voice grew silky, “...shy? Perhaps they have other things on their mind. So the KGB and the Stasi experimented with other methods.”

“What other methods?” said Alex, though he could see the plain white bottle with the heavy Cyrillic script in his mind’s eye.

He felt Yassen shrug. “Chemicals. Things to be put into food; sprayed on to skin…”

Put into toiletries. It sounded outlandish, but Smithers had given him similar items when he’d worked for MI6: sprays to attract insects; spot creams which ate through steel. Never an aphrodisiac, but he’d been fourteen. Too young, perhaps, for MI6 to condone that suggestion.

“And then there was Glasnost,” Yassen continued, “and the Berlin Wall came down and for a few years such operations were no longer in vogue.” He paused in reflection remembering, perhaps, a more hopeful time.

“And now?” he said, barely daring to ask.

“Now? Now there is Viagra, and the internet, and many easier ways to entrap a target. No one bothers with the old methods any more. But if you go to Izmailovsky Market on the last Friday of the month, there are still some Soviet souvenirs to be found.”

“You’re lying,” Alex said but uncertainty bled into his voice. It would explain so much: his lethargy; his inability to focus; his body’s hypersensitive reactions and the weird pull – the fierce attraction - which ran between them, even now.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Yassen said. He pressed his mouth to Alex’s neck and he felt the flicker of eyelashes against his skin, soft as butterfly wings. “It doesn’t take much, you know, to help you relax.”

Alex didn’t feel relaxed. He felt hot and urgent, his breathing hectic, his skin tight. “You’re a bastard.”

Yassen laughed quietly and pulled him onto his back. His eyes were as clear and tranquil as placid water, and utterly amoral. “I told you I would make it good for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

He dipped his head for another kiss but Alex dodged his lips and glared defiance. It was the wrong decision: being denied only focussed Yassen’s attention more intently on his mouth. His eyes grew heavy-lidded. “I want you to suck me,” he announced.

Alex's stomach dropped. “Now?”

“Why not now?”

The question was fraught with possibilities, none of which Alex wanted to think about. “But I haven’t-” He forced his voice to stay calm. “I haven’t done that before.”

If he’d hoped his inexperience would dampen Yassen’s ardour, then his plan back-fired. Yassen's reply was matter-of-fact but the slow-kindling heat in his eyes made Alex shiver. “Then I will teach you.”

Before he could think of a response, Yassen had unbuttoned his jeans and was pushing them down his lean hips. Alex tried not to look but his head turned of its own accord and his face filled with heat: Yassen was hard, his cock a shocking dark red against his flat belly. He snatched his gaze away and didn’t look up until a hand under his chin gave him no choice.

"You just have to do as I say.” The words were level, but Yassen’s expression brooked no argument. Alex nodded reluctantly and watched with growing unease as Yassen resumed his favoured position resting against the headboard. “Kiss me here,” he said, and to Alex's surprise touched his collarbone.

It was as safe a spot as any on his body. Alex edged forward and pecked cautiously, once. His lips were swollen from Yassen’s kisses and sensitive to every nuance of heat and texture. He felt the smoothness of tight-stretched skin and tasted salt. After a second Yassen’s hand cupped his head and stroked his hair, the touch in equal parts a caress and an exercise of control.

“And here.” The indicated spot was lower on his chest, at the base of his sternum. Alex kissed the edge of the scar, feeling the contrast in texture between new skin and old, and the hand in his hair tightened.

“Now here.” ‘Here’ was a spot below his navel, the path leading inexorably down. The skin was soft, almost velvety, perhaps the sole soft point on Yassen’s body. Alex pressed his mouth to it and felt the brush of fine hair against his lips. The musky scent had returned, mixing with the heady fragrance of jasmine, clouding his thoughts. With a thrill of unease he realised he had lost track of time. How long since Yassen had first pulled him on to the bed - minutes, or hours? He was given no time to ponder - Yassen was speaking again.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s nice.”

He petted Alex’s hair, ruffling his hand through the tousled strands before drawing him towards his pelvis. The hair here was darker and coarser. Yassen’s erection, hot and hard, rose only an inch from his cheek. He could feel the heat radiating from it and saw the tip was glossy and already a little wet. The sight sent a squirm of sensation through his belly, a mixture of ashamed excitement and rising panic. He didn’t know what he was doing. What he feared most, bizarrely, was not Yassen’s displeasure but mockery for his ineptitude. It was almost a relief to be guided to lie between Yassen’s spread thighs, the bedspread cool and smooth against his skin.

“Kiss me here.” Yassen’s hand hovered above his erection, indicating but not quite touching the swollen head.

Alex hesitated, but there was no point in pretending he didn't understand. He pressed his mouth to the waiting flesh. The skin was hot and slick and when he drew back he couldn't help licking his lips. They tasted a little salty, a little musky, but nothing repellent.

“Now lick.”

He licked once over the shiny skin - just a quick, nervous flick of his tongue but it made Yassen’s hips twitch.

“Good, Alex. Do it again. Not so fast this time.”

His face reddened with chagrin at both the praise and the implied criticism. He took a second, slower taste, then a third, lapping with the flat of his tongue, and heard the headboard creak as Yassen shifted beneath him.

“Good.” Yassen wrapped a hand around his shaft and began stroking himself with a slow, careful tempo. The skin beneath Alex’s lips became wetter still and he tasted salt again, stronger this time. An answering heat had woken in his pelvis - Yassen’s arousal stirring his body into sympathetic response - and his hips shifted unconsciously against the bedsheets, seeking a firmer friction. Yassen let him dally a little longer, then nudged upwards against his lips.

“Open for me.”

The words were quietly spoken, without urgency, but the straining flesh pressed to Alex’s lips told a different story. He opened his mouth and let the slick skin glide between his swollen lips. The slow slide had him pressing restlessly into the mattress. He let the head rest on his tongue for a heartbeat, feeling its weight, before drawing back for breath.

“And again,” said Yassen, a note of strain entering his voice. He was sweating, Alex saw, his body glistening with a fine sheen of moisture, and his pale hair dark at the temple. Once again he had a sense of his own power, the premonition that if he were just a little more experienced, he might yet make Yassen shudder and beg. Emboldened, he didn’t obey at once, lingering to lap at the tip until Yassen was breathing fast and twisting hard fingers into his hair. Braver still, he drew back and dragged his tongue along the underside of Yassen’s length before at last taking it into his mouth. He heard an intake of breath and saw the muscles of Yassen’s stomach tighten as he leaned forward to watch. For a moment Alex did nothing, becoming familiar with the textures on his tongue - the head, tight and hot, the firm ridge, and the round, smooth shaft between his lips. Then slowly, cautiously, he began to suck. His cock pressed urgently against his belly, trapped between his body and the bed, but his attention was elsewhere - focused on the stretch of his jaw - the taste and feel of Yassen filling his mouth.

“Very nice. A little more?”

Growing in confidence, he sunk further along the shaft, letting it slide against his lips until the rounded tip bumped the back of his throat. The harsh sensation made him gag and he jerked back, only to find a hand on his neck preventing his retreat.

“It’s all right. Breathe through your nose.”

Alex fought back panic and obeyed. As his claustrophobia receded he found he could breathe, though his eyes were watering and his jaw was beginning to ache. His excitement diminished sharply but Yassen’s grip didn’t slacken. He began to push into Alex’s mouth, his hips setting an urgent rhythm. There was an increasing slickness on his tongue, a salt heat. The press of Yassen’s shaft pulsed against his lips. He tried again to lift his head but Yassen’s hands sank into his hair with an iron grip.

“Stay _there._ "

He thrust into Alex’s mouth with a groan which sounded as if it had been ripped from his chest. Though Alex expected it, the wet heat which sprayed across his tongue still came as a shock. He swallowed reflexively but it overflowed his mouth and ran down his chin. Yassen's hips bucked twice more, then stilled, his grip growing gentler as he relaxed in satisfaction.

“Alex,” he said after a moment and laughed a little, pressing a hand to his chest. “My God, are you trying to kill me?”

Alex wrenched his head free and grabbed for his discarded T-shirt. By the time he’d finished wiping his face clean, Yassen was on his feet and over the other side of the room. He took a litre of water from the minibar and drained half without pausing for breath, then tipped the bottle over his head, in a impromptu shower.

“Do you want some?” he said  Alex shook his head, his shock replaced by a growing anger. “Coke? Vodka?” Yassen shook head like a dog, than ran his fingers through his hair to brush off the excess water. He was completely at ease with his nakedness, moving with an unselfconscious freedom which Alex envied even as his face burned with resentment. “Nothing?” Yassen gave him a curious look “Do you like how I taste?”

“Coke,” Alex said. Yassen might be feeling playful, but he was in no mood for teasing. His throat was sore and his jaw hurt, but his physical aches were nothing compared to his sense of injury. 

“Coke.” Yassen opened the mini-bar and tossed him a bottle. He caught it and scrambled to the far end of the bed, sitting with his knees hugged to his chest. His reaction made Yassen frown. “I didn’t hurt you, Alex. Maybe surprised you a little.”

“That’s not the point,”  he muttered. He had been used, selfishly, his body made into a vessel for another's pleasure.

An undefinable emotion twisted Yassen’s mouth. “Come here.”

He picked up the T-shirt, dampened a corner of it and used it to wipe Alex’s face. The gesture was almost  gentle and Alex’s resentment expanded tenfold. He wasn’t scared  - or at least not of physical harm. As long as he remained compliant there seemed little danger of that. He’d met enough sadists to recognise the signs, and for all his deadly profession,  he had never known Yassen be needlessly cruel. What he feared was his own treacherous reactions: that if Yassen touched him again, his unruly body might respond despite his anger. He could feel arousal smouldering low in his belly, heavy and hot, ready to reignite at any moment.

“I’m not a child,” he snapped and turned his face away.

“I have noticed, really,” Yassen said. He paused, studying Alex’s expression. “Are you angry because you hated it, or because you didn’t?” 

It was close enough to the truth to make Alex glower. “How would you have liked it if someone had done that to you?” 

Yassen watched him a moment longer. “Do you want me to do that to you?”

“No!”

“As you like.” Yassen twisted the T-shirt between his hands and pulled on the ends, testing its strength. Satisfied, he looped one end around the base of the headboard and beckoned Alex towards him.

Alex didn’t move. “What?”

“If you don't want to play anymore, then I’m going to bed.”

“You don’t have to tie me up.”

Yassen arched an eyebrow. “Oh? You’ll lie beside me nice and quiet all of your own accord?”

“It’s not like I can go anywhere," he muttered. "You’ve taken all my clothes and I won’t fit into yours.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. But I think I will anyway. You’re full of surprises. Perhaps you’ll get bored and try to smother me with a pillow.” He took Alex by the elbow and pulled him across the bed before he could argue further. Then, working with a speed which spoke of long experience, he lashed his wrists to the bed frame. “That will hold you for half an hour.” He climbed between the sheets, positioning himself so he lay between Alex and the door. “And no talking,” he added. “I will gag you if I have to.”

“You’re a bastard,” he muttered.

Yassen pulled the covers around his shoulders and turned his back. “If you wanted me to trust you, Alex, you shouldn’t have tried to hit me with a vodka bottle.”

Alex glared at the back of his sleek blond head but his silent indignation had no effect, Yassen exhaled once and was asleep. Only the sound of soft breathing showed he wasn’t dead. Alex waited five minutes then looked about. If Yassen felt safe enough to sleep, then the Glock must be within arm’s reach. He pulled at his wrists experimentally but the knots had been expertly tied and the more he tugged, the tighter they became. He gave up before he lost all feeling in his hands. It was a pointless exercise in any case: even if he managed to slip his restraints and find the gun without waking Yassen, he wasn't sure he could kill him. Yassen had killed his uncle, but he’d also saved Alex’s life. He hadn’t managed to shoot him four years ago on the _Fer de Lance,_ and that was before Yassen had taken a bullet on his behalf. He understood now the debt which Yassen felt he owed his father. The saving of a life forged a powerful bond, one which wasn’t easily dismissed.

He rested against the headboard instead, watching Yassen sleep, and felt his anger gradually recede. In some ways it was a privileged position; he doubted Yassen often shared a bed. Quick, impersonal liaisons seemed a better fit for his chosen lifestyle. Perhaps now he had retired, there was a wife or a girlfriend and a whole host of little Yassens back wherever it was he called home, but somehow Alex doubted it. Yassen’s hunger not just for sex but for kissing, petting – intimacy - didn’t suggest a man in a happy, stable relationship. He yawned, then sighed. The insight didn’t bode well for his future happiness. Sabina told him he’d meet someone, but in his darker hours he wondered if he were already too damaged for that. She was back in London now, at University, having the time of her life. He missed having someone to talk to and, most of all, her cheerful optimism.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until the sound of running water woke him. The sky was still dark and his wrists were tethered to the bed, but he was lying down and had been covered with a sheet. He sighed and rubbed his chin on his shoulder. Yassen would be much easier to hate if it weren’t for his occasional flashes of humanity. The water shut off with a thud and a rattle of pipes and as if summoned by his thoughts, Yassen emerged from the bathroom, wiping his face on a towel.

“Did you sleep?” he said.

Seeing him in the flesh,some of  Alex’s resentment returned. For a man who’d spent the day blowing up secret military bases and the night in amorous pursuit of an enemy operative, Yassen looked unfairly rested. His own nap had left him tired and gritty-eyed, his teeth were furry from the Coke and his shoulder hurt.

“Reports are coming in of a fire over the border,” Yassen continued. “Local news says a possible chemical explosion. No official confirmation.”

No official confirmation was bad. No official confirmation meant the authorities suspected something but were working behind the scenes to confirm it. No official confirmation meant he needed to leave the country in the next twenty-four hours before the net began to tighten. The neighbouring states had good relations; they would share intelligence overnight. Someone would soon remember two Europeans with no luggage and smoke-grimed faces. Their taxi driver would be traced within days, if not hours.

Yassen followed his thoughts without difficulty. “We have a little time yet.”

Alex scowled and didn’t answer. Silence was his only weapon now. He couldn’t prevent Yassen from doing what he wanted, that much was clear. He couldn’t even control his body’s response. All he could really do was try to deny Yassen the illusion of intimacy which he so seemed to crave. Somewhat to his surprise Yassen didn’t push for a reply. Instead he sat on the side of the bed and untied Alex’s wrists, chafing them back into painful life. When he was done he leaned forwards, seeking another kiss.

Alex ducked away before it could land. “Don't.”

“No kissing?” Yassen pulled down both sides of his mouth in mock disappointment.

He shook his head.

Yassen’s shrug was philosophical. “Well, there are other places to kiss.”

Before Alex could respond, he found himself rolled onto his front and pinned, not roughly, to the mattress. He gripped a pillow, breathing deeply and tried to distance himself from what was happening, but it seemed that Yassen had nothing more alarming in mind than a back rub. He sat on the side of the bed and smoothed the skin between Alex's shoulder blades like a jockey soothing a nervy horse. Occasionally he dropped his head to kiss his neck or nose into his hair, but for the most he concentrated on kneading the tight muscles of his back and shoulders, until they gave up their tension.

The room was dim and quiet, the sheets were cool, and it was pleasant to be touched in this patient, undemanding manner. Inch by inch, he relaxed, his heartbeat slowing and his breathing becoming shallow. He barely stirred when the mattress dipped. A brush of lips on the small of his back had him lifting his head in drowsy surprise, but Yassen had already moved on to trace the dimples at the base of his spine and he sunk back on to his pillow without protest. A slow drag of thumbs up each side of his spine had him arching his back in unconscious pleasure and he barely stirred when Yassen began to drop a trail of soft kisses down his vertebrae, thinking it would be more of the same. He wasn’t expecting Yassen’s mouth to continue its downward journey, and nothing prepared him for the smooth caress of tongue running down the cleft of his backside, nor the insidious rush of heat when it slipped further between. His sense of calm evaporated. With an exclamation of surprise he twisted out of Yassen’s grasp in a flurry of knees and elbows, only to find an iron arm across his hips clamping him to the mattress.

“Where are you going?”

“What are you doing?” Alex retorted shaking his hair out of his eyes, and glaring over his shoulder.

“Oh you’re talking to me now?” Yassen inquired. He shifted his position and slid up the bed until he could better see Alex’s expression.

He ignored the gibe. “What are you  _doing_?”

Yassen bit his lip and opened his eyes wide. “Kissing?” he said, with an air of faux naïvety.

Alex’s face grew hot. He had no idea how to deal with this side of Yassen; the relaxed, confident sensualist who delighted in teasing him. “That wasn’t kissing, that was-”

He broke off. He didn’t know what it was. Catching up on missed school work had left little time to explore the more _risqué_ parts of the internet. He had no idea what Yassen had just done - no words for the hot tongue pressing intimately against him, nor the bolt of sensation which had shot down his legs.

“Better than kissing?” Yassen suggested helpfully.

Alex shook his head. “Dirty.”

Yassen made a noise which combined exasperation and amusement. “No, Alex, it’s not dirty, really. You are very clean.”

“Don’t be a dick, you know that’s not what I meant.” Yassen’s face went blank at the insult, mild though it was, and Alex subsided a little. “Anyway, It’s not my thing,” he muttered, picking at a seam on his pillow.

“How do you know? Have you done it before?”

It was tempting to lie, but Yassen would surely guess, or worse, call on him to demonstrate his competence. “…No.”

“Does it disgust you?”

Alex pinched the pillowcase between his fingers and didn't answer at once. It wasn’t disgust which had prompted his reaction but the familiarity which the act implied. It couldn't be something people did casually. Sabina was his benchmark for what most people considered normal, and she’d never mentioned anything of the sort. “No,” he said eventually.

Yassen’s eyes narrowed. “What, then? Do you think it ought to disgust you?”

“It’s…personal.”

“But did you _like_ it?” Yassen said. “If you liked it, I will do it for you.”

“I-” Alex lapsed into silence. Liking was not the right word.“

“Huh.” Yassen studied him curiously. “I think you liked it a little,” he decided. “So we will try it a little.” He held up a hand, the fingers splayed. “Five minutes.”

“Yassen…”

Yassen shushed him. “Five minutes, Alex. How will you know if you don’t try? Lie back. Think of England.” His voice grew fainter as he lowered his head. “England needs you.”

He kissed a slow path up Alex’s leg and, and touching delicately with the tip of his tongue, tickled the downy hairs at the juncture of his thighs. The combination of hot breath and wet, silky tongue made him shiver. Had Yassen’s drug increased his skin's sensitivity? He could feel every detail of the velvety cheek pressed to his inner thigh and knew Yassen had shaved while he was asleep with the intention of doing exactly this. He wondered feverishly how much of the night Yassen had planned in advance, but in the next moment rational thought became impossible. Yassen spread him open and kissed him, using his mouth with a devastating, experienced sensuality, setting off a shock wave of delight which Alex felt in his toes.

“Oh, Jesus,” he choked and bit his forearm.

 

* * *

 

Five minutes later, Alex was making noises which didn’t sound human. He couldn’t stay still. He was pawing at the bedspread, climbing up the headboard, drenched in sweat. Yassen let him roam where he wanted, waiting until he collapsed to the mattress before pouncing on him to renew his silken assault. His entire body ached with arousal; he barely recognised himself in the wanton creature which thrashed across the rumpled sheets. His sole consolation was that he was not alone in his madness. Yassen’s self-control was also beginning to fray.

“I want to fuck you,” he growled, his voice a low vibration against Alex’s thigh. “Like this. Right now.”

Alex nodded. Wet strands of hair clung to his forehead. It was pointless to try to resist. Yassen could do things with his mouth he’d never dreamed of. He could have anything he wanted. Anything at all. Magnanimous in victory, Yassen mouthed against him a minute longer, teasing until he sobbed for respite, then moving swiftly he took a pillow and thrust it beneath Alex’s hips.

“Be still,” he said and kissed the nape of Alex’s neck, sweeping his damp hair aside. “Lie quiet now.”

Alex buried his face in his arms, his heart racing. He heard a drawer open, the rip of foil and a sharp snap but Yassen gave him no time for second thoughts. Something cool and slick pressed into his body and he flinched in shock. 

“Easy.” Yassen’s hand squeezed his hip.

His fingers lingered a little longer, then another quick movement and he could feel the blunt pressure of Yassen’s erection pushing against him, breaching where he had so recently kissed. His muscles yielded and with a swift movement Yassen entered him. He hissed at the unexpected burn, uncertain if he could take more.

“It’s all right,” Yassen said. “Relax. You’re all right.”

He exhaled shakily and realised that he was. Yassen waited for his breathing to settle, then pushed into him with a tightly-leased savagery - a single thrust which claimed Alex as his own. There was no hesitation in his actions, no sense of remorse: he knew what he wanted and he took it, then took it again. It was a hasty, urgent coupling; the slaking of a primal urge. Had Alex been less turned on he might have protested its pace and force, but pleasure had begun to build inside him, waves of sensation rolling through his body in time with the frenetic pace of Yassen's hips. The spiralling heat was still reaching its peak when Yassen’s arms tightened around his chest, hard enough to squeeze the breath from his lungs.

“Good, Alex, good,” he said, and buried his face in his neck as though afraid of saying more.

Another thrust and Yassen sighed, his body suddenly heavy. For heartbeat he lay still, holding Alex fast, but his moment of vulnerability was short-lived. A second later Alex found himself turned and lifted without effort, so he sat across Yassen’s hips.

“Show me,” Yassen commanded. “Do it on me. I want to see it.”

At any other time Alex would have resented the implication that his pleasure was Yassen’s to command, but Yassen’s hand wrapped around his cock stroking him hard and fast. Tension built to breaking point within seconds and his release came in thick hot spurts which took his breath away, shooting across Yassen’s chest almost up to his collarbones. His vision blurred and he caught hold the headboard to steady himself. When the mist faded he saw with a _frisson_ of shock that Yassen had smeared his seed across his torso and was rubbing it luxuriously into his chest.

“That’s disgusting,” he mumbled when he could find the breath to speak.

Yassen didn’t pause; a contented smile playing upon his lips. “Disgusting – why? Because I like to feel my lover on my skin?”

“I’m not your lover.”

Yassen laughed. “No, Alex. Of course not, no,” he said and caught him in his arms as he collapsed on to the bed.

 

* * *

 

When he roused, he was back beneath the covers. Yassen lying alongside him, his head propped on his hand.

“Not bad for your first time,” he said when he saw Alex’s eyelids flicker open.

“It was all right,” said Alex, not prepared to concede more than that. He stared at the shadowed ceiling. It was done. The worst had happened. He’d been taken by another man. Ruefully, he admitted it had been better than all right. He felt alive, his body tingling with exhilaration, as though he’d surfed a perfect wave, skied a double black run, fought the dragon and won.

“All right,” Yassen repeated.

“Yeah,” said Alex. He caught Yassen’s eye and felt his pulse begin to pick up. He hadn’t realised sex could be an adrenaline sport. “I’m starving,” he realised and rolled out of the bed before he could be called upon to defend his words.

Yassen started upright, then relaxed when he realised where Alex was going. The pilaf was cold but still good, the mutton falling from the bone; the vegetables, sweet and caramelised; the rice softly spiced. He ate straight from the serving dish, spooning food into his mouth with single-minded purpose. Yassen watched with a half-smile and went to retrieve the vodka bottle from where it had rolled beneath the sofa. He poured himself another shot and returned to bed to nurse his glass, tucking the bottle under the mattress, out of harm’s way.

“Careful,” he murmured as he passed, brushing a hand along Alex’s shoulder. “They say the oil at the bottom is an aphrodisiac.”

Alex ignored him. The fire in his loins had banked, suppressed by an even more urgent need. He finished the pilaf and begun on the jam – the cherries, dark and glossy, glowing in their sweet syrup. He washed them down with a glass of astringent, lukewarm tea and pondered his next move. It had been a long day and the night seemed to have lasted a hundred years. Food in his stomach had the predictable effect. His eyelids drooped even as he deliberated.

“You are falling asleep on your feet,” Yassen said, “come back to bed.”

“In a minute.”

“Do you want me to come and get you?” The words were light-hearted, but something in Yassen’s eyes suggested he wasn’t teasing.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“No,” Yassen said, his mouth narrowing into a thin line.

“You can tie me to it, if it makes you happier.”

Yassen just shook his head.

Alex sighed but Yassen’s slow-coiling intensity would not be satisfied by evasive words. “I have bad dreams,” he said eventually, picking his words with care. It wasn’t something he admitted to many people, the screaming terrors which stalked his nights. The Pleasures knew - he could have hardly kept it from them - and his psychiatrist. “I shout, sometimes, I…” lash out, “thrash about.”

“Not tonight.”

The words were spoken with such certainty that Alex smiled despite his tiredness. “You can’t know that.”

Yassen began stacking pillows at the head of the bed, clearing a space for them to sleep. “I can.”

“How?”

“Because if you do, I’ll wake you.”

“It’s not always that easy,” he muttered.

Yassen gave him a long look. “What are you scared of?”

“I’m not scared.”

“You won’t hurt me,” said Yassen, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Come back to bed.”

Abruptly, he was too weary to argue. If Yassen wanted to risk concussion, he couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned. He climbed beneath the covers and pulled them up to his chin. Yassen waited until he settled, then curled around his back, one arm draped across his waist. The cynical part of Alex’s brain knew nothing Yassen ever did was casual. This wasn’t sleepy post-coital cuddling; it was Yassen’s means of making sure he didn’t escape in the night. The rest of him didn’t much care. He was tired, and in a strange way as safe as he had ever been. He lay listening to Yassen’s gentle breathing, feeling his own synchronise to it, and fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

In the end it wasn’t nightmares which disturbed him, or intruders, but a series of torrid dreams. The first time he woke up, hard and aching, he bit his lip to muffle his breathing and worked his cock with urgent strokes of his hand. He knew the moment the Yassen awoke, not from any sound or movement, but from a sudden intent quality to the silence.

“Alex? What is it?” When he didn’t respond, Yassen ran a hand down his back, feeling the tension running through his muscles, then along his arm to discover what he held in his fist. “If you want this, you will tell me. You will wake me and you will tell me. Do you want this, Alex?”

His fingers curled around Alex’s, terribly sure and strong, and Alex found himself doing what he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. “Yes. Oh yes, Yassen, please,” he whispered and shuddered in relief when Yassen took him in hand.

The second time he had less shame. He shook Yassen from sleep into instant wakefulness and pressed against his side in silent entreaty. He didn’t think he imagined the flash of teeth when Yassen understood his meaning. He might have resented the complacent satisfaction that smile implied, but his need was too urgent and his relief at finding a smoothly muscled thigh pressed between his legs too great to protest. He rubbed off against it, hot and greedy, while Yassen gripped his hips and urged him on, whispering words of encouragement into his ear in a mixture of perfect English and filthy Russian.

And there was one final time, when dawn was beginning to wash the sky with white light. Slow and dreamlike: a series of vivid impressions. Alex straddled across Yassen’s lap, gripping the headboard and riding him. Yassen lying beneath, his eyes intent on Alex’s face, moving with an easy rhythm which rolled up his spine, letting him set the pace and take what he needed.

 


	5. Chapter 5

When he next awoke it was daylight and he was alone in the bed. The distant voices of the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer echoed out over the city. From the short shadows lying across the carpet, it was almost noon. He sat and felt the muscles of his thighs screech in protest. There was a dull throb between his legs and his forearm smarted where he’d bitten it. Yassen was already up, sitting on the sofa and reading a newspaper. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and trousers, ready to move out. The Glock was in place beneath his left arm and a backpack waited at his side.

“You’re awake,” he observed without looking around.

Alex scowled and limped to the bathroom. A new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste waited for him in a glass by the sink. He washed and brushed his teeth then examined himself the mirror. For all his aches and pains there were no obvious scratches or bruises on his skin, just a small, red bite at the top of his thigh which he didn’t remember receiving. A mark of possession. He paused when he saw it and felt his colour rise, remembering how Yassen had tasted every part of him, remembering the things he’d begged Yassen to do. It was tempting to stay in the bathroom - to bolt the door and wait until he was alone, but he refused to hide away as though he were the one who had done something wrong. He wrapped a towel around his waist, took a deep breath and returned to the fray.

Yassen was still sitting on the sofa, but breakfast had materialised on the table beside him and Alex’s clothes waited in a pile at the end of the bed, freshly washed and pressed. His boots stood beneath them; no amount of polishing could return a shine to their dull leather but they were cleaner than they had been since they were new. He checked the hollow heel and felt his spirits rise when he found the tightly folded twenty-dollar bill still hidden within it, then went to see what was for breakfast: more tea, kefir, flat bread and melon. The portions were small but they took the edge off his hunger. Yassen waited for him to finish before breaking the silence.

“You should go now. I’ll see to the room.”

As he spoke he pulled on a thin pair of microfiber gloves, preparing to begin the deep clean. Seeing them, the last of Alex’s embarrassment drained away to be replaced by rising anger.

“That’s it?” he said.

Yassen dampened a handful of paper napkins with a slug of vodka before replying. “That’s what?”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Yassen gave him a steady look. In the harsh light of day he had become once again the man Alex remembered from childhood: smooth-faced, softly-spoken, impossible to read. “You’re cross with me,” he noted.

“Cross with you?” Alex heard his voice rise and made himself speak calmly. “You held me here against my will, you forced me to have sex with you, and you think I might be cross with you?”

A small crease appeared between Yassen’s eyebrows. “I didn’t force you: we had an agreement.”

“An agreement which you were determined to enforce.”

Yassen shrugged. “Perhaps at first you weren’t too sure. But then you were very sure. Several times.”

Alex felt his jaw drop. “Because you drugged me!”

“Drugged you?” Yassen repeated. He clicked his tongue. “Alex.”

“What?”

Yassen picked up Alex’s glass and wiped around the rim. “An aphrodisiac concealed in toiletries? Think for a minute: how would it would it work? How would it be administered?”

“The agent applies it,” he said blankly, remembering how Yassen had stood behind him in the shower.

“If they are that close to the target why not slip something into their drink? Much easier, much less messy.”

“Because the target doesn’t trust the agent enough to fall for that.”

“But they let the agent help them wash?” said Yassen. He put down the glass and wiped clean the cutlery, smearing any fingerprints beyond hope of recovery.

It was like being back at school - quizzed on a lesson he hadn’t prepared for. “Then put it into the bottle instead - let the target apply it to themself.”

“And how would one control the dosage? Or ensure the target used it at all?”

They were valid questions. Alex frowned. “What are you saying?”

Yassen took a fresh napkin and buffed around the edge of the breakfast tray, polishing the dull metal until it shone. “There was no drug,” he said when he was finished.

“What?”

“There was no drug.”

Blood pounded in Alex’s ears. “But you said-”

“No,” Yassen corrected him, “ _you_  said.” He wiped Alex’s plate, then took the tray to the door and left it outside for the maid to collect.

“No.” But when Alex replayed the previous night’s conversation in his head, he realised it was true. The ideas had come from him; Yassen had simply elaborated upon his words. He returned to what he knew for certain – the shampoo’s heavy perfume, its chemical bite, its old-fashioned packaging. “That wasn’t normal shampoo.”

“True,” said Yassen. He polished the light switch and door handle, then stripped off his gloves and replaced them in his pocket.

“What was it?”

“Federal Security Service issue, used to remove explosives residue - keep away the sniffer dogs.”

Designed to remove Semtex. Alex sat heavily on the side of the bed. “And all that guff about the KGB. Was that made up too?”

“Not at all. The KGB experimented with many such drugs - aphrodisiacs, behavioural disinhibitors - but in the end the old ways always worked best.”

“Which were?”

“A little alcohol. A little time. A pleasant companion.” Yassen glanced casually around their surroundings. “A nice room…”

“But-” Alex said before he could stop himself. It hadn’t been normal. The fire running through his veins, the frantic pounding of his heart, the hunger which had consumed him, the carnal desire.

His hesitation caught Yassen’s attention, he abandoned his efforts and walked over to the bed. Even in his anger and confusion, Alex couldn’t help but admire his effortless grace.

“But?” Yassen prompted.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.

Yassen put a hand under his chin and lifted his head. “But what?”

Alex stared straight ahead. He didn’t want to say it, but he had to be sure. “I came five times,” he said at last, through gritted teeth.

Yassen’s upper lip twitched. “What it is to be young,” he murmured.

Alex thumped him with a pillow. 

Afterwards he was surprised he didn’t find himself staring down the barrel of the Glock. Instead he ended up kneeling on the bed, straddling Yassen’s hips and glaring down at his laughing face. He didn’t flatter himself that their respective positions were due to his competence; if Yassen was underneath, it was because he had chosen to be.

“Alex, believe me, no drugs were needed.”

Alex swallowed, not wanting to accept it but knowing with sinking certainty that it was true. The lustful stranger riding Yassen so urgently last night had been – him.

“You lied to me,” he said. He tried to pull away, but Yassen’s hands were sliding up his bare thighs, holding him in place.

“No. I told you a pretty story,” Yassen said, his voice silky. “As lovers sometimes do.”

Alex ignored the tug low in his belly. They weren’t lovers, no matter what Yassen might claim. “And that’s your idea of pillow talk, is it? To pretend you drugged me?”

Yassen sighed with a mixture of irritation and resignation and lifted his hands. “First you are cross with me because I drugged you and now you are cross with me because I didn’t?”

Alex shook his head. “You are incredible,” he said. “And when you told me I had no choice, was that pretending too?”

Yassen’s smile held a frightening lack of remorse. “I didn’t say that, I said I would prefer you willing. And then I made sure you were.”

“You said you loved me once, was that a pretty story too?”

It was a direct hit. Yassen’s face went blank, wiped clean of all expression. When he spoke, the words were flat, almost monotone. “That was four years ago, and I had lost a lot of blood.”

Alex stared down at him, trying to work out what went on behind those hard, blue eyes, but Yassen could outstare a cat. Eventually he looked away, defeated. “You could say you’re sorry,” he said not sure if he meant for the last night, or the previous four years.

Yassen shrugged. “I’m not. Not even a little.”

Alex gave up, his anger ebbing away. It was pointless to argue, pointless to pretend that Yassen would ever be anything other than a man in ruthless pursuit of his own agenda. He rose to his feet and picked up his trousers and jacket from the floor.“You better hope I don’t come after you,” he said, checking them over. “There are a lot of people who would be interested in talking to Yassen Gregorovich if word gets out he’s still alive.”

For a second Yassen didn’t reply. He was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. “You could try,” he said eventually.

“You don’t think I could do it?”

“No.” Yassen spoke with absolute certainty.

“Why not?”

Yassen propped himself up on his elbows. “For a boy you were exceptional , but you were a boy - no one expected you to be good. As a man-” He rocked a hand back and forth, miming uncertainty.

“What?” Alex said, unable to resist the bait.

“Fast. Not afraid to improvise. But reckless. A little sloppy.”

“Sloppy.” That word again. His handlers had called him many things, but never sloppy.

Yassen sat up and began stripping the pillows of their cases, dropping each one on to the floor. He would take them to the housekeeping trolley, and mix them with the sheets from a hundred other guests. There would be no hair shafts left behind to identify them. No sheets to examine for their DNA.

“At the compound, for example, you used four bullets on the Jeep. One into the fuel tank was all it needed. A second into a tyre if you had to be sure. And another shot wasted shooting at your reflection - you know better than that. You should have had three bullets left. You came up those stairs very fast - you took me by surprise. If you had been armed things would have been very different.”

“And then what?” said Alex.

“What do you mean?”

He tucked his clothes under his arm and made a gun-shape with his fingers, pointing it at Yassen’s head. “I shoot you with my remaining bullets.” He fired off three imaginary rounds. “Then what do I do? Do I take the kite and fly to the border? Bribe my way across with the clothes on my back? Or do I attempt a mountain crossing with no supplies?”

For once Yassen looked perplexed. “You had no local contacts?”

“Before someone blew up the compound, I did, yes.” They would have gone to ground at the first sight of trouble.

Yassen stripped off the rest of the pillows before replying. “I’m not saying it would have been easy.”

“It would have been impossible. If I’d done it your way I’d never have made it off the roof, let alone to the border. This way I got a lift, dinner and a bed for the night.”

He kept his tone flippant but he knew as he said it that his point was valid. Armed or not, he had taken the best option available to him at the time. He couldn’t blame himself for that. And if he had to do it again he would make the same choices.

Yassen gave him a long look. “Perhaps,” he conceded, “but you were lucky. You had no plan.”

Alex laughed. “You can’t plan for everything, Yassen.”

It was a good line and having said it, it felt like the right time to go for a shower.

 

* * *

 

He expected to find the room empty when he returned, all traces of their occupation wiped from existence, but though the bed was stripped and every surface gleamed, Yassen was still there, sitting at the table and poring over a small chess board. Alex wandered over to look at the game. It was at the end stages, the remaining pieces strung out across the board in a complicated pattern.

“Do you play?” Yassen said, not looking up.

“Not really.” He picked up a knight and used it to menace a lonely pawn. A bishop whipped out and knocked it from the board for its effrontery.

“You spill your vodka and you don’t play chess. You will never make a good Russian,” Yassen said. He considered the reconfigured game, his chin resting on his hand.

“You take jam with your tea and don’t like to talk about the weather,” Alex retorted. Unobserved, he took the opportunity to study Yassen’s face. In the harsh midday sun his hair looked almost white and the lines at the corners of his eyes were etched deep into his skin. He could see how he would look in thirty years’ time: silver-haired and weathered, but with his pale intensity still intact.

“I would not make a good Englishman either,” Yassen agreed. He turned the board a hundred and eighty degrees and viewed the game from the opposite side.

“I’m not English, anyway,” Alex said. “I’m American now.”

He didn’t know what motivated him to say it. It would have been wiser to maintain the extra layer of anonymity his change in nationality provided, but he hadn’t taken the decision lightly and he was curious to see how Yassen would react.

“And I am Swiss,” Yassen said. When Alex didn’t reply he looked up. What he saw in Alex’s face surprised him. “Really? You’re American now? CIA or something else?”

Alex shook his head. There was some information he wasn’t prepared to divulge.

“Huh.” For once Yassen was at a loss for words. “I thought you would never leave MI6.”

“They used me,” Alex said. “They made me into a weapon. I was a child.” The bitterness in his voice surprised him. “I wanted to be a footballer.”

“I’m sorry,” Yassen said simply. He studied Alex a moment longer then returned to his game. “So you’re American now,” he mused.

“Yep.”

Yassen gave him a sly, sideways glance. “Freedom and apple pie?”

“I guess.”

“Big hat? Big guns?” He mimicked the shape of a Stetson around his head.

Alex laughed self-consciously. “Something like that.”

“Huh. So that’s why last night you rode me like a cowboy.” Alex turned scarlet - he’d walked straight into that - but Yassen just shook his head. “Alex, you have a lot to learn.”

“You could teach me,” he heard himself say.

“Teach you?” Yassen’s voice was carefully neutral. “Teach you what?”

Alex shrugged. “Not to die.”

“I think you’re good at that already, really - a hundred percent success rate at not dying.”

“To retire, then. To move on.”

“To retire?” Yassen gave a soft laugh. “Yes, that is more difficult.” He turned the board again. “Are you sure you don’t play?”

“Not for years.”

“In three moves, all choices lead to stalemate. A draw.”

“Beginner’s luck.”

Yassen said something in Russian and began to pack up the game, folding the board and using it to funnel the pieces into a soft drawstring bag.

“Bad loser,” Alex said.

He thought Yassen might pull him up for his impudence but his attention was elsewhere. Something outside the window had caught his eye. “Alex, come here,” he said in the tone of a man who expected to be obeyed. 

“What?”

“The BMW has gone past twice and is coming back for the third time.”

Alex looked down onto the street below. Sure enough a black car was crawling down the road in front of the hotel. Two men sat in the front. Its rear windows were tinted and it rode low on its back wheels.

“Friends of yours?” he said.

“No,” said Yassen. “The authorities here have no interest in me. I think, perhaps, enemies of yours.”

“The taxi driver?”

“More likely the porter. It is always the people who cause the problems.” Moving swiftly he packed away the chess set and lifted his pack onto his back. “Listen to me,” he said. “You go out of the door. Turn left, then second left. Take the third door on the right. It’s the housekeeping room: the door has no spyhole. Go to the window. There is a balcony on the building opposite. You can jump to it. It’s an office building, under refurbishment - the builders have deactivated the alarm. There is a way out through the basement. It takes you close to the Russian Bazaar. There will be lots of people there, lots of foreign tourists. Do you have a safe house you can reach?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me the instructions.”

“Left. Second left. Third door on the right. Window. Balcony. Basement.”

“Go then.”

“What about you?”

In reply Yassen unholstered the Glock and shot once at the bottom corner of the window. There was a muffled thud. The glass crazed into a spider’s web of cracks but a clear film across its surface prevented it from shattering. “I will go this way.”

“You’ll decoy for me?”

Yassen took a knife from his belt and cut along the side of the window. The blade sliced easily through the film, severing it from its mooring. “They’re expecting to see a blond European in dark clothing,” he said. “We should show them one. It will ease their minds.”

“Are you sure?”

Yassen didn’t waste time on an answer. He turned the knife, and ran it swiftly along the base of the frame. There was a gust of hot desert air as the seal broke, and the sound of shouting filled the room. “Go, Alex, quickly. There are more cars on their way.”

Still he lingered. “Will I see you again?”

Yassen holstered his knife and kicked out the bottom of the window, opening up a jagged gap the size of a crouching man. “Why?” he said when he had finished.

“I don’t know,” said Alex. It was the truth. He didn’t know why: whether he wanted a mentor, a lover, an enemy, or simply a link to his past. So many people dead, but Yassen had come back.

Yassen braced his hand against the window frame and leaned forwards, judging the distance to the canopy below. “Süleymaniye Hamam, Istanbul,” he said. “Do you know it?”

“I can find it.”

“If you work out what you want, you can meet me there. Fifth of September. Midday.”

He glanced back at Alex, his expression unreadable, then turned to the window and jumped. Alex waited until he saw him land, roll and begin to run. Then he was out of the door and away.


	6. Two years later

They were almost at the river when Lyall pulled them to a halt.

“Shit,” he said and dropped to the ground, motioning them to follow.

“What is it?” said Alex crawling up alongside him.

Lyall already had his field glasses trained on the rock face to the north of their position. “There’s someone on the northwest ridge.”

“Are you sure?” Lyall nodded and passed him the glasses. A ceaseless wind blew along the valley floor, stirring the fine dust into whirlwinds and coating their skin with a light, salty grit. It was hard to make out any details. “Whereabouts am I looking?”

“Straight up from the weir. Have you got him?”

For a second Alex saw nothing, then a flash of movement came into focus passing across a patch of darker rock. “I’ve got him.”

“Did you see him move?”

“Fast,” said Alex tracking the figure. “Very fast.”

Lyall pulled a map from his chest pocket. “We’re meeting Arturo here,” he indicated a flat piece of land on the far side of the river. “Matey-boy is headed up there.” He traced his finger along the contours of the map. “Aiming for that, I’ll bet. Panoramic view.” He pointed to an outcrop of rock on the far side of the valley, two hundred metres above their current location. “If he starts taking pot-shots at us from up there, we’ve got problems.”

“Might be a goatherd taking a shortcut,” said Alex. When the wind shifted in the right direction, they could hear bleating and the hollow chime of goat bells coming from over the ridge. There were no goats in their valley; the local people knew better than to graze their livestock on the meagre pastures which surrounded the narrow river. The armed men drinking in the village square had seen to that.

“What are the chances?”

“Not good.”

“Someone’s going to have to go up there and see what he’s about.”

Alex watched the running figure a moment longer. It wasn’t carrying a weapon but that didn't mean it wasn’t armed. The path was narrow and rocky: it would take both hands to navigate.

“I’ll go,” he said and shrugged off his pack.

“You sure?”

“Got anyone else who can speak Spanish?”

“I can do:  _dos cervezas, por favor,_ ” said Mitchell from behind them.

“It’s got to be me then.”

“All right.” Lyall passed Alex’s pack to Mitchell and Harvey to distribute between them. “We’ll meet you back by the weir. If he starts anything, get out of there ASAP. We’re not here looking for trouble.”

“Understood.” Alex rose to a crouch. Without his pack he felt ten times lighter, barely tethered to the ground.

“Call in when you get to the top,” said Lyall, clapping him on the shoulder. “Go easy.”

 

* * *

 

The ledge was empty when Alex reached it. It didn’t take long to check. It ran along the side of the valley for about five metres, surrounded by on three sides by a sheer drop and with a solid rock escarpment to the rear. At its greatest extent it was no more than two metres wide and the only exit was back along the path he’d run up. A couple of old cigarette butts dotted the bare rock along with some fresher goat droppings. There were no other signs of life. He was about to radio in with the All Clear when a movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. A grey-clad figure dropped lightly from the rock face to land behind him, blocking the way back. He turned, his hand dropping to his gun, and found a silver Beretta semi-automatic pistol pointed at the centre of his forehead.

“Alex?” The speaker was dressed in pale camouflage, his face smeared with dirt. Against the lichen-crusted rock he faded almost into invisibility. “You were meant to be in the Sudan.”

“Change of plan. You were meant to be in Mexico.”

Yassen shrugged. “I lied. Hands up.”

Alex obeyed and Yassen shifted his grip. The gun was still pointed at his head but now Yassen’s trigger finger rested along the slide. Alex didn’t kid himself. Yassen could still shoot in the time it would take to cross the distance between them; he was simply making sure he didn’t do it by accident.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“Sightseeing.”

The reply was laconic to the point of terse, but Yassen wasn’t carrying a sniper rifle which meant he was most likely working a surveillance detail. It could have been worse but the success of Lyall’s mission relied on maintaining the element of surprise. His best hope now was to keep Yassen talking and hope he didn’t turn his head.

“There’s no need for the gun,” he said. “I know you’re not going to shoot me.”

Yassen’s eyes were clear and unconcerned; his aim unwavering. “Perhaps I will just clip your wings - keep you out of trouble.”

“There’s no way you can just clip my wings at this range,” said Alex. A bullet at three metres would send him over the side of ravine. The long drop into the valley played on his mind. He began to inch towards the back wall, seeking a safer position. Yassen turned with him, the Beretta pointing unerringly at his forehead.

“If you’re banking on that, Alex, I warn you now - try anything and I will break your leg in seven places.”

“Jesus,” said Alex not needing to fake his shock. Yassen could be deadly when he chose, but it was rare that he resorted to threats of violence.

Yassen twisted his lips, the closest he could come to apology. “Three places,” he amended. “And I will visit you in the hospital.”

“And bring me grapes?” Alex said. He risked pressing a hand backwards and felt the reassuring solidity of rock against his knuckles. Behind Yassen’s left shoulder a faint flicker of movement showed Lyall was on the move. He snapped his eyes back to Yassen’s face. If he could hold his attention for a few more minutes the rest of the team would be safely hidden in the scrub.

Yassen was frowning. “Why grapes?”

“I don’t know. It’s what people get when they’re in hospital.”

“Grapes, then.”

“What about when they discharge me? I’ll be in a cast for months.”

“I will look after you.”

“Cook my meals and do my washing?” Alex said.

Yassen’s expression was perfectly serious. “Yes.”

“Help with my physio?”

“Yes.”

“Give me sponge baths?” he said, running out of inspiration.

Yassen’s face had taken on the hunted expression it sometimes wore when Alex talked about topics which weren’t weapons, tactics or fighting. “What are sponge baths?”

“You know, when you’re sick in bed and the nurse washes you with a wet sponge…” he trailed off as Yassen’s eyebrows climbed. “It was just a joke,” he said sheepishly.

Yassen holstered his gun. “If you want me to give you sponge baths, Alex, then I will give you sponge baths. No broken leg needed. Very nice. Very soapy. Very slow.”

Alex blinked. “Really?”

“Really.”

"Oh." Alex’s brain ground to a halt. Down on the valley floor Lyall was crossing from the banks of the river into the brushy undergrowth. Behind him he could see Harvey, moving more slowly, weighed down by Alex’s pack.

Yassen followed his gaze. “So you were a diversion?" He gave one of his rare, sudden smiles. "Well, it was a very nice diversion.”

Still smiling, he stepped forward and feinted three times, striking at Alex’s neck, his chest, his cheek, - tight little jabs, almost too fast to see. Alex dodged, hands moving instinctively upwards to shield his face and saw Yassen’s fist drive in towards his unprotected ribs. He reached to block the punch and found it was another bluff. Yassen had both hands locked around his wrist, immobilising it. Alex clamped his free hand on top, doubling the lock. Now they were both trapped.

“You’ve been practising,” said Yassen, his pale eyes alight with appreciation.

Alex’s answering grin was equally fierce. “Always.”

He tightened his arm muscles and felt the almost imperceptible flex in Yassen’s wrists which said his grip could be broken. Yassen felt it too and stamped at his instep in warning. This time Alex saw the attack coming and whipped his foot aside.

“You’re getting slow, old man,” he said.

“No, Alex. You’re getting fast.”

They stood facing each other, their hands interlinked, neither of them able to let go. Yassen's face was only inches away, so close Alex could see the fine dust clogging his eyelashes.

“Now what?” Yassen said with interest.

Alex flexed his arms again preparing to make the break, but something in Yassen’s expression troubled him - a brightness - as though he was on the verge of laughter. It told Alex that he’d missed something - something important. He checked his surroundings. They were alone. Yassen’s hands were immobilised and his back to the precipice. His position was precarious; what had caused him to smile so? The answer clicked into place with the suddenness of an image springing into sharp focus. The explosive power to break the hold would propel Yassen into the ravine. He would fall backwards, to land in a crumpled heap two hundred metres below.

Yassen watched, alert for the moment understanding dawned in his eyes. “You’re not going to kill me,” he said with perfect confidence.

They released each other in the same instant. The sick realisation of what he’d almost done rooted Alex to the spot. Yassen,  burdened by no such misgivings, struck without hesitation. In one moment they were facing each other, in the next Alex found his arm twisted behind his back and his face pressed hard to the unforgiving rock.

“You can break this hold too, I think,” Yassen observed. “But that will hurt you and it will hurt me.”

“You’re a bastard,” said Alex. He rolled his shoulders and felt the grip on his wrist become painfully tight. Yassen was right: he could escape but he would dislocate his elbow. He’d be out of action for weeks.

“Mm,” Yassen agreed. His voice was muffled. He had taken something from a pocket and was holding it between his teeth. “But I am a bastard who misses you. When will I see you again?”

Alex leaned sideways in an attempt to weaken the hold on his arm and felt Yassen move with him, as though they were dancing. “Next month. The twentieth – the Blue Lagoon, we agreed.”

“Too long.” Yassen looped a rope around Alex’s captured wrist and knotted it securely. “When do you fly?”

He wasn’t giving away his itinerary that easily. “When do  _you_ fly?”

“I’m freelancing - I can change my plans.” His other wrist was pulled behind his back and the rope tightened, binding them together. “That will hold you for ten minutes. Eight, if you remember what I showed you.”

Alex tugged at his bonds but they were of strong nylon cord and didn’t give an inch. He couldn’t reach his radio to warn Lyall his cover was blown, nor safely navigate the rocky path to the valley floor until his hands were free. He rotated his wrists, hoping to bring the knot towards his fingers where he could begin work on unpicking it. A pair of hands on his shoulders halted his progress.

“Alex,” Yassen said into his ear, soft but insistent, “will you meet me at the airport?”

He wanted to say no. The mission had taken months to plan and now because of Yassen’s interference their only hope was to abort it before it was too late. It would be a subdued team which waited in the departure lounge. But to refuse would be to spite himself as much as Yassen. Seeing him unexpectedly reminded Alex how long they had been apart. Even ten minutes in an airport café, sitting side by side unable to speak, would be better than nothing. He pressed his forehead to the rough rock and nodded defeat.

“Thursday morning. We fly via Lima.”

“Thursday.” Warm lips pressed to the skin beneath Alex’s ear. A second later he was alone.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Billy Idol song of the same name.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art: Run to You - Alex Rider](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7923814) by [Bold_as_Brass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass)




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